


Welcome Darkness, My New World

by Anonymous



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Sex, BDSM, Boys in Chains, Chains, Dark fic, Dom/sub, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roger is a helpless sub, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Thriller, Torture, WARNING: not for the faint hearted as the content is extremely explicit, kidnapped roger, prisoner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-03-01 00:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 72,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18789193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Get used to it, Roger,” came the voice, speaking softly next to his ear. “This is your new home.  You are going to be here a long time, during which you will learn to cooperate with me and provide me with everything I ask for," said the deep voice full of implied menace.or,In the darkness of the night, Roger was kidnapped by a man he once knew from the past. Who was he?





	1. Captured

** Welcome Darkness, My New World **

**Chapter 1 - Captured**

 

Summary: _In the darkness of the night, Roger was kidnapped by a man he once knew from the past. Who was he?_

 

 

Roger Taylor snapped awake in an instant. It was one of those rare moments when the body, aware of an unseen danger, seems to rise to the height of alertness in a fraction of a second.

In that fraction of a second, Roger knew there was someone else in the room before he had even opened his eyes and found himself blinded by the beam of a torch. Time seemed to become slower, and he caught a harsh intake of breath and the smell of cigarettes on clothing. But however slowly time seemed to pass, Roger found himself unable to react against this unknown enemy until a rough hand pressing down a strip of tape over his mouth had stung him into a response. By that time, this unknown intruder – for Roger knew at once that his assailant was a male – was on top of him, pinning his helpless body under the bedclothes.

Roger reacted without thinking at this point, feeling the pressure of the intruder’s knees on the blankets and his arms. He tried to buck him off with his lower body and legs, but the bedclothes held him back, making his efforts feeble and ineffective. 

As the blonde drummer did this, he began to feel the effect of a duct tape over his mouth, for he could neither scream nor gasp for air. Struggling to move his arms, legs or torso, Roger could only put up little resistance other than to make wild ‘hmmming’ noises through his nose, all the while shaking his head and struggling as best he could under the bedclothes.

Roger was terrified, to say the least. He was not able to rationalise who this assailant was and why it was happening to him. Burglary, rape and murder were words that flashed through his brain, and each spurred Roger to a greater frenzy of thrashing about and trying to heave the weight off his body, but to no avail.  Breathing only through his nose had starved him of the air he needed to fight off this intruder. The stranger said nothing, but Roger could hear his own heavy breathing as the masked man fought to subdue him. The torch kept flashing in his eyes – this man was obviously wearing it on a headband – until a hand gripped Roger’s hair and another piece of tape was slapped over his eyes.

This blindness panicked the now wide awake drummer even further, and he must have paused to try to gather his wits at that point. The momentary respite was all the attacker needed, for a second later Roger’s head was on the receiving end of more duct tape, this time wound around and around, over eyes, over mouth, then vertically around his chin and head. It was no clinical job, encompassing hair, ears and all, but it was tight and very scary and at once Roger knew he was in real trouble, for he was not going to get the tape off in a hurry. 

In a sudden jerk movement, his head was released. Roger was making pitiful moans now, realising the sudden deterioration in his circumstances and the fact that he was not going to fight off this man, blindfolded and gagged as securely as he was. Roger was now pleading, he realised – if the pitiful whimpering escaping through his nose could be classed as such.

There was a further pause at that point.  Roger could hear the man above him panting and that his own blood was pounding in his ears. They both halted their struggles, trying to regroup and gain some form of composure. Roger’s attacker had still not said anything, which scared him as much as anything.  He could smell his attacker’s breath  - stale cigarettes, which made Roger recoil in disgust.

Then he eased himself off of Roger, and once again the now little defenseless man went wild, bucking and flailing under the blanket, trying to get his hands free so that he could go on the attack, but again his assailant was too quick for him. In a mess of sheet and nightshirt Roger was rolled over and he was again on top. This time his taped head was buried in the pillow, making him forget all else in an effort to continue breathing.

The next steps, Roger now realise, were entirely predictable; and looking back he knew now that the battle had already been lost. He had no hope from this point, and the dragging down of the bedclothes and the handcuffing of his wrists behind him were but a formality. Roger knew there was nothing he could do, and that there was no choice but to submit to whatever this person had in store for him. Further fighting was only going to get himself hurt. Unconsciously he knew he had no choice but to bide his time and look for an opportunity, a moment in which to escape or flee.

The blankets were then pulled off fully, and Roger felt the cool night air on the backs of his legs. The man rolled Roger over again, onto his manacled wrists, ignoring the whine of pain he made, then swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed such that he was sitting up, his head wrapped in tape in what was now Roger’s own private world. 

He stood the drummer up, smoothing down the nightshirt he wore. His hands ran roughly over Roger’s body, fondling his balls through the soft material of his pyjama pants and toying with his nipples. 

Roger was aghast when his cock hardened up, feeling his body betrayed him in a way he did not expect. Roger had experienced bondage before, of course, and he made no bones about it being a turn on, but those circumstances had been different – a controlled environment where rules existed and a ‘safeword’ could bring things to an end.  That had all been many months ago in London, before Roger had cut his ties and moved to Manchester. Nobody here knew Roger’s ‘safeword’. A desperate, hopeful humming of  ‘happy birthday’ through his nose only got him a slap on the face.  It did not really hurt, through all the tape, but it shocked Roger into silence. 

He stood there, feeling the panic reaction starting to set in. Roger was shaking like a leaf, his wrists making little rattling noises in the handcuffs. Suddenly the room appeared to have become very cold. The roving hands had stopped and he did not know where he was or what was happening. Roger turned his head, trying to locate the sound of movement, but all was silent save the continued pounding of blood in his ears and his own ragged breathing. Roger could still smell the stale cigarettes. 

‘He is near me, I know it,’ thought Roger through his impending panic attack.

“Urghh?” he ventured. A slap on the face.  Roger’s ears rang. The attacker was standing in front of him.

“Shut up, you little slut!” A deep voice with an distinct English accent hissed in his ear. Roger jumped, so sudden and unexpected were the words. The voice was like someone he knew, but couldn’t put his fingers upon, destroying the remote possibility that someone from a distant relationship had somehow tracked Roger here to play some sort of cruel joke. Roger would never mistake this voice again, he knew at that point, so much was it now etched into his brain with those few words.

Pressure came with fingers grasping Roger’s nipples through his shirt, pulling him downwards. Blindly he obeyed, sinking to his knees with trepidation. Strong hands grasped Roger’s shoulders and laid his face down on the carpet. The same hands quickly pulled his pants down and bound his thin ankles tightly with some sort of cord and rolled him onto his back. Roger felt the cold touch of the steel-bed leg against his thigh before his ankles were abruptly hoisted into the air and the ankle rope was tied to the top of the bed frame at one corner.  The bed frame itself is wrought iron, with waist-high frames at the head and foot. Roger now found himself bent at the waist, with the lower part of his body naked as his t-shirt slipped back to his waist.

Roger’s sexual vulnerability really came home to him at that point. His face burned under the tape, in part no doubt with the blood rushing to his head, but in part also due to his awareness of being exposed in front of his assailant, who now slid his hand down Roger’s thighs to the triangle of soft hair. Roger squirmed and whimpered. Was he going to rape him there and then? Did he have a knife? 

Then came the soft tread of footsteps on the carpet and the bedroom door opening and closing, and Roger knew he was alone.  
He laid there for perhaps about ten minutes, unable to stop trembling. Roger had never been so terrified in his life, not even the moment when he got into a car accident back in the 60s with his friends. The thought of what might lie ahead gave him no comfort, the unknown nature of it playing havoc with Roger’s imagination. His feet were starting to go numb under the painful tension induced by the weight of his legs hanging from the rope tied to the bed frame. Roger tried to ease himself into a less stressed position, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He wondered how long the assilant was going to leave him like this. He screamed in his mind, ‘How could I attract someone? Where is the phone?  How will I ever reach it. And for Christ’s sake, I am going to the States tomorrow!’

It was odd how something as totally illogical as missing a flight popped into his head. Here he was in a potentially life-threatening situation and he was worried about upsetting his travel plans. Roger squirmed onto his stomach, his cock crushed against the floor, then tried to arch his back sufficiently to get his hands up towards the ankle ropes, but they came nowhere near it. Turning on to his back again, panic adding a desperate impetus to Roger’s contortions as he tried to pull his body weight upwards, resting on his shoulders and bending his knees in an effort to get his hands close to the knots. The room was now hot, what with Roger’s exertions, and he could feel the sweat trickling through the maze of tape around his head with his inverted position.

Then _he_ was back. Roger was pushed down roughly and his ankles caught with a jerk. He cried loudly into the tape, but it came out as a muted nasal whine. Then his ankles were undone and he was hauled to his feet. Standing in his dark world, Roger felt more duct tape go around the material of his chest above his right elbow, before it was drawn hard against the left one, after which more turns of tape locked the elbows hard against each other. Right after that, the handcuffs came off and Roger’s poor wrists were taped palm to palm – tape which then enveloped his hands and fingers right to their tips. God he had never had his arms bound so immovably before.

This man was obviously the duct tape king, for he slapped more tape around Roger’s body and fully around his chest, welding his arms immovable to his torso, followed by further bands tethering his wrists against his buttocks.  
Without a word, Roger was pushed onto his knees again, and then laid face-down.  His legs were bent at the knee and more of that dreadful tape was wound around the length of each thigh, wrapping his lower leg, ankle and foot hard against it.  After five minutes, the-usually-mouthy Roger was virtually unable to move, save to open and close his bent, bound legs, which he decided was not a good idea.

There was a faint squeaking sound, like that of a rusty trolley wheel. Roger was lifted bodily and placed face down on to some sort of board. One end of it came to just under his chin, while the other end appeared to end just beyond his bent knees. It was barely as wide as his body, and predictably enough more tape came out, enveloping his body and crushing it to the board. Roger finally lost it at this point as his immobility hit home to him, and he began to scream again.   
Of course it wasn’t exactly going to wake up the neighbourhood. His jaw was bound tightly closed and his mouth was sealed very effectively. All Roger could do was make as much noise through his nose as he could, kind of like a loud discordant humming.   
“Urrrnnh! Urrrnhh! Urrngh!”

It was really not a bright idea, and that was what he told Roger, right after he had smoothed a piece of tape over his nostrils.  
Roger went berserk at that point, shaking his head and trying to throw his body about, but the former was the only part he could get to move. Roger strained his nostrils to breathe in, or to blow the tape off, but it was futile, and he knew he was suffocating. He was barely aware that he was making faint peeping noises that even the tape couldn’t cover, but that was the least of his problems. Roger’s lungs were on fire and he was sure he was going to die. So this was what it was like, he thought desperately. God, what a way to go, to die trussed up in a bedroom at the hands of a madman…

Then came a glimmer of hope, the merest whisper of air dragged greedily into his lungs as the sharp point of a knife pierced the tape over each nostril.  
“You can do it the hard way,” the voice hissed, “or the easy way. It’s your choice, Rog. What’s it going to be?” The knife gave a small twist and Roger felt the coldness of steel against his nose, as more glorious air rushed into his lungs.  He was snorting and gasping so much the implication of the fact that the man knew who Roger was almost passed him.   
“Are we going to behave?” said the voice again. Desperate and exhausted, Roger nodded. “I’m quite prepared to seal one or both, again.  You really don’t want that, do you, Roger?” Miserably, he shook his head.

Whether it was that movement that brought on the next act, or whether it was all part of the master plan, Roger didn’t know, but he then felt some sort of frame, like one of those handles on a small pull-along suitcase, positioned at either side of his head, with a bar alongside each temple. The inevitable tape secured his last movable body part and he realised moments later that the comparison with a pull-along suitcase was indeed apt, for he discovered that there were wheels at the bottom of the board as he was tilted at an angle and towed behind his captor. Oh no, he thought, realising that the stairs outside his bedroom lay ahead.

Roger was petrified as he became nearly horizontal and descended the stairs with a series of thumps that shook him to the core. He could do nothing but endure it, of course, and he became conscious of the fact that they were now at the closed-in area under the house where his car was parked. There came the familiar grating of the latticework door and then a faint breeze rippled across the few bits of him not covered in tape. Roger suspected another vehicle would be parked in the drive, and he was not wrong. For a car enthusiast, he instantly noticed what sounded like a van door opening, and he was hauled up a ramp into the interior. Several ropes were fastened across his body until Roger and the trolley were immovably secured inside the van. The captor placed another piece of tape over one nostril and he momentarily panicked again. But then the door closed and they were on our way…where?

The trip seemed to take forever, like back when Roger had taken a trip to London. There obviously wasn’t much traffic at this time, which he presumed to be in the wee hours of the morning. Roger tried to focus his mind on opportunities to escape, like the possibility of being pulled over for a random road inspection, but even had that happened, he could not make enough movement or sound to attract any attention, of that Roger was sure. Breathing only through one nostril forced him to relax and take measured breaths as calmly as he could. He did not feel calm at all. He was shit scared as to what was going to happen to him. The physical limits of his situation were also starting to make themselves felt, with cramps starting to manifest in his shoulders, arms and legs. Each bump transmitted itself through the floor of the van into his body. He was sure he felt the successive thumps of the expansion joints of a bridge – or was it a usual expressway? Where was this man taking him?

At last they were there. The engine stopped and in his dark, rigid prison Roger felt his stomach begin to churn again. The doors of the van opened, his trolley was untethered and he was wheeled down the ramp like a piece of luggage. There were several bumps up steps, then the sound of a door opening, then closing after they had entered the room it served. He was pulled some distance into the room then lowered to the floor, where the tape binding him to the trolley was cut and the one over his nostril removed. Roger heaved a sigh of relief, but his position was no less strained. He was picked up at this point and deposited on his side on a hard bed.  He involuntarily bent into a foetal position, just to ease his aching limbs, but this really made little difference, so tautly was he bound. Roger once again whined through the tape.

“Get used to it, Rog,” came the voice, speaking softly next to his ear. “This is your new home. You are going to be here a long time, during which you will learn to cooperate with me and provide me with everything I ask for. If you do this, maybe you will survive. If not, well...” He paused, his deep voice full of implied menace. “I’ll leave you now. Plenty of time to get to know each other. Relax and enjoy your bonds for a few hours. I need some sleep.”

Which was how Roger came to be in his new home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers. It is I, anon. So what do you think of this story? Who do you think kidnap Roger? Leave your thoughts in the comments below. Bye for now.  
> P.S.: kudos and comments are very much appreciated ;)


	2. His Small World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside Roger’s small world now that he was held captive by the elusive kidnapper.

** Welcome Darkness, My New World **

**Chapter 2 – His Small World**

 

His name is Roger Meddows Taylor. He was 26 years old. His occupation is a drummer slash biologist in London. No, he _was_ a drummer and a biologist. His current occupation was now a prisoner, kidnappee, hostage, captive, slave, call it what you will.

Mr Taylor was now nothing but a shell of what he used to be. He could walk across to the full-length mirror that was fixed to one wall. It was covered by a piece of Perspex, just in case he got any ideas about breaking the glass and slashing his wrists. His ocean-blue eyes could stand in front of the mirror and observe the reflected figure that was himself all day, for he got nothing, literally, anything to do.

Roger is naked. This was now his normal form of ‘dress’, if you could call it such. He believed some or all of his remaining clothes might be stored somewhere upstairs, but he did not really know this. Nakedness was his normal state of being - naked of body, naked of mind and naked of soul. Roger had long since passed the stage of embarrassment; such have been the indignities and humiliations that he had had to bear in that dungeon.

Roger had lost weight. Looking at the reflection of the mirror, he stood at 5’9’’ feet tall. He had beautiful blonde locks, but he had seen the first faint hints of grey appearing at his temples in the weeks he had been kept prisoner. Such was the price that was being extracted from him, although physically a grey hair or two was the least of Roger’s torments. At least he’d been allowed shampoo and conditioner and a hairbrush to keep some element of shine to his locks. His hair sat snugly, albeit a little bit messy, on his shoulders. The _Master,_ that’s how he demanded Roger to call him, had cut it once since he had been there, which perhaps told Roger that maybe three months had passed since his incarceration. 

His eyes have the colour of clear blue sky. In the right light you could sometimes see little hints of grey in the iris. His cheeks were now slightly sunken, showing his cheekbones as more prominent than they used to be. Roger had never thought of himself having the thin model look (although he was fully aware that he got the model-look on his angelic face), but that’s where he appeared to be heading. The puffiness that surrounded his eyes when he first arrived here was gone. That was the result of a lot of crying and not much sleep. Nowadays Roger seemed to have overcome those obstacles – it’s amazing how the body adjusts. 

His body was lean. Roger was never overweight, but what little surplus flesh he had, had been shed under the cruel punishments and the forced isometric exercises he had endured. His food intake had varied, depending on _his_ mood. Roger had gone two days without food in one instance, wondering if his kidnapper had suffered an accident, but it turned out he had merely been visiting his mate and had decided Roger was not a high priority. Roger was now so much more aware of his own body than before – aware of size and proportion, of colour and skin changes. When you’re locked in a 7-metre by 7-metre cell with no clothes, no company, and only a mirror for a diversion, you tended to notice these things. 

Roger knew every inch of his body in a new way, now, as did _he_. It seems every inch had at one time felt the sting of the cat or the sharp crack of the riding crop, or the tightness of securing ropes. The ex drummer knew the sensation of his own weight and how it tugged on strapped and suspended wrists or ankles. He was fully aware how overly sensitive his nipples were now from all of the strenuous treatments that he got when his kidnapper deemed it necessary to clamp them with too-heavy weight pulling them down with the help of cruel gravity.

His ribs were almost protruding from his skin, but not quite. His stomach was still firm as it sloped down to where the downy bush of blonde hair used to be.  Roger supposed he should thank _him_ for the exercises he had undertaken that have tightened his abs. If only he had not been bound in such severe positions during the sessions, it could almost have been as tolerable as a hard gym workout. But it wasn’t. And of course his master shaved him. Being the way nature intended was clearly not to _his_ liking, and his nether region had to have its little mop of hair removed. He was sure this was yet another part of his assailant’s debasement program.

His thighs and calves were toned and muscled, which is not surprising, considering the amount of time Roger had spent either squatting, hogtied, or attached to a spreader bar on tiptoes. All these positions amounted to strenuous isometric exercises, but with a significant incentive to maintain them. The incentive was usually a whip, leading to a beating that would leave him bruised and marked.

Predictably, Roger’s slight tan was long gone and his skin had become deathly pale in the absence of sun. Roger was still trying to persuade his master to let him see the light of day and to get some vitamin D, even just for a short while, on whatever terms he wished to specify. His resolve was growing, not weakening, Roger had decided, and using his mind to outwit him remained his focus.

Roger, as previously mentioned, was naked. Naked except for his chains, of course. They rattled when Roger walked, but he had nearly become used to them.  These were the ensemble that currently shackled him. Around his neck was a stainless steel collar which his kidnapper must have had made especially for Roger. It was about the width of two fingers and was riveted on - quite light and comfortable, but very strong. 

The edges were slightly rolled so that it did not cut into his neck with just enough clearance to get a finger between his neck and the metal. On the front there was a U-shaped fitting to which a chain could be locked when it pleased _him_. It could almost have been pretty, were it not for what it had come to symbolise, and such was clearly his assailant’s intention.  
Around Roger’s waist was a larger version of the collar, slightly wider and with a U-fitting on each hip supporting a steel ring the diameter of a fifty cent piece. Again this accessory was riveted in place and was snug, provided Roger didn’t put on any weight, not that there was much danger of that.

Roger wore steel cuffs on his ankles and wrists, faced on the insides with a thin layer of dense foam – the kind that asylum’s restraints are made from. The cuffs could be locked in place and usually remained so until _he_ decided that maybe ropes or straps would be more appropriate, so that Roger could be made much more uncomfortable. 

The cuffs were all in place now, as Roger stood looking at himself in the mirror. Additionally, a thin chain connected his right ankle to his right wrist, and an identical one connected his left ankle and wrist. These chains ran through the rings on his waist belt at each hip. When Roger stood straight, the chains pulled taut such that his wrists were pulled in against the rings and he looked like a gunfighter waiting to draw. If he wanted to scratch his nose, Roger had to bend one leg upward to give him enough slack for the attached wrist. It was a devious configuration. It forced him to eat either cross-legged or kneeling. Roger had to wash his hair or clean his teeth the same way. Again, all part of the slave culture. Additionally, with a single padlock, _he_ could lock both wrist cuffs to Roger’s collar and leave him unable to do anything except waddle about the room in a crouched position. It was no wonder his leg muscles had toned up. 

The room where Roger held captive was a converted double garage underneath his kidnapper’s house. It had been entirely lined with a newly constructed concrete block wall. Anyone opening the garage roller door would be greeted with this blank block work wall immediately inside the door. To all intents and purposes, it was soundproof. When the properties of the exterior wall were added to the sound-deadening qualities of the block work, the room was silent, with the only sounds being those of its sole inhabitant – Roger himself. Roger could hear _him_ when he was at home, for the timber joists were exposed above him and some of the rooms above appeared to be uncarpeted. Roger, being a smart lad that he was, had got to know the creaks of the floorboards and the sound of footsteps and all the small noises that indicated the workings of a house.

His room had a double bed, a shower and a toilet. You could enter the room through a door in the corner. On the center of the opposite wall was the double bed, iron framed and bolted to the concrete floor and set slightly away from the wall. There was about a metre and a half between the foot of the bed and the steel post. To the left side of the bed, far in the corner, was the small shower. Next to it was the toilet. The only other objects to break up the room were a steel chair bolted to the floor near the corner diagonally opposite the shower, and a wall mounted steel cupboard next to the door. This cupboard was locked, and contained the many and varied instruments of torture that Roger had experienced in his time there. The Perspex-covered mirror was mounted on the wall next to the steel chair, so Roger could sit there and do his hair, or alternatively watch his expression of pain as he was subjected to the sting of the lash while bound to the chair.

Looking around the room, some faded oil stains on the bare concrete floor were visible, but the concrete block walls remain pristine. Roger thought about trying to make marks for the days of his incarceration, but he had no idea of the passing of time, since he could not see daylight, only darkness. Even the food _he_ brought Roger seemed to be randomly delivered and appeared to be whatever _he_ found handy, rather than any form of breakfast, lunch or dinner.

Dangling from the exposed joists were several pulleys and a chain block, attached to which Roger had spent many unpleasant hours. Under the cold glare of the dim, fluorescent lights was a grey and depressing place, filled with memories of pain and humiliation. The lights were turned on and off in a seemingly random manner. Sometimes it was like Roger was in pitch darkness for twenty-four hours, then the next session was only a quarter of that. It continued to disorient him and disrupt his sleep patterns – not that Roger really had such a thing anymore. It was obviously intended to lower his morale and will to resist.  And it worked, in an insidious and stealthy way.

Welcome to Roger's small, enclosed world that was now his humble abode. But one must know the beginning of it all, and how he came to be held captive in this dungeon in the first place. This is where Roger Taylor’s misfortune series began…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tee-hee. Who is this elusive kidnapper, I wonder? Thank you for your comments and support, guys. It means the world to me. Until next time. V


	3. Looking Back, A Fresh or Doomed Beginning?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger's story from a year ago.

** Welcome Darkness, My New World **

**Chapter 3 - Looking Back, A Fresh or Doomed Beginning?**

 

_One year ago._

 

Roger was born in Norfolk, England. He grew up there and went to East London University to pursue his degree in Biology. So much for his youth in a nutshell. He has no siblings, and, as of two years ago, he has no parents. They were both killed in a horrific bus accident when they were on their business trip. To top it off, his precious band that he helped build for the past 2 years had broken up. That was without a doubt the most terrible time of Roger’s life – or until this nightmare began. 

All Roger wanted to do was get away from Truro, left all the memories behind him and made a fresh start. 

At that low point, Roger’s relationship with his boyfriend Freddie Bulsara hit rock bottom after all the disasters that happened and it did not take a major decision to sell up and leave. He put the family home in the hands of his solicitor and eventually left his hometown and his ex-boyfriend behind. 

Roger had made enquiries about London and had established that he complied with the ‘wanted occupation’ criteria.  Determined to make something out of his life, he pursued his Biology degree in University. A lot of things happened to him on the way, of course, but they are not relevant in this tale. Suffice to say, he arrived in London somewhat more together than he had started, and eager to settle down to some sort of normal routine.

Roger had led a quite busy life with his school and he would occasionally play small gigs with some of his college mates whenever he could. Anything that could get him to earn some money here and there now that he lived alone. Roger rented a small terraced apartment by himself somewhere near his college and got used to the modern world again by immersing himself in his music and work.

The drummer was not yet ready for a new relationship. He guessed his colleagues thought of him as a one-night-standoffish slut because of his carefree lifestyle, and let’s admit it, his look, but it didn’t bother him. The scars of the break-up with Brian and the death of his parents were still too close to the surface. Sure there was the odd date, but the enthusiasm and chemistry wasn’t there and nothing developed.

A legacy from his 2-year relationship with a certain singer, however, was the direction his sexuality had taken. It had been Freddie who had introduced Roger to the world of bondage as a submissive, and it was under this spell that he had fallen.  It wasn’t that he missed Freddie as a person – for he could be such a twat sometimes – it was what Roger experienced at Freddie’s hands that stayed in his memory.

He liked to buy one of those trashy sex magazines and inevitably browsed through its ads one day. Roger had never really taken to these kinds of magazines before – he always thought it to be a waste of time which didn’t excite him. While Freddie could spend hours browsing through the magazines in hoping to learn new techniques or so, Roger had failed to see the attraction. Only after Fred slowly inducted him into the mysteries of a bondage relationship did Roger deign to take an interest in the magazines and any information it has to offer.  That was when Freddie first showed Roger to _Shackled Magazine_. And of course it was shortly after this introduction that Roger’s world fell apart.

The baby-faced drummer has to admit that he did daydream about it whenever he was bored out of his mind. There is nothing like an uncomfortable bus ride to get the mind wandering into other worlds. Roger had experienced some relatively mild bondage at Freddie’s hands and it excited him, but he had been left in a tantalising limbo after their blazing row that ended it all. It was like some Promised Land had been shown to Roger, and then the bridge leading there had collapsed. Then, with his parents’ deaths the whole vision had evaporated.

But later, in his quiet little room in his apartment had the old memories surfaced once more. Roger had scanned eagerly through the magazine’s profiles and felt the old excitement of the forbidden or unknown fruit. He looked at the weird and bizarre options provided for people to list as their interests.  Some of them he barely understood. Roger felt like a moth to a flame, dancing close, mesmerised but scared of where it would lead. One heard so many things about disastrous meetings via this magazine’s ads.

Needless to say, Roger finally plucked up enough courage to put his own profile up.  
“GentleRog” he called himself. It didn’t seem so off the mark. Then came all the categories to fill in. Roger had to say he agonised over some of these. He thought of Freddie and the hours he had lain tied to his bed, blindfolded, while he drove Roger crazy with probing fingers and devices he could not see but could certainly feel. Here, however, was a whole new world – ideas he had not even considered and which at once both scared and excited him. There were all these people out there who were into this stuff. Filling in the form took some time…

“Looking For:” The first part on the drop-down menu was easy – a man. For what? No, Roger couldn’t suggest this person to call round to tie him up.  It was something that would have to happen very slowly over the course of time. “Erotic mail exchange” would do for a starter. Roger would see where that led.

“Activities enjoyed”: This was starting to get hard. “Bondage, domination, dildoes, leather, vibrators, toys, chain”. As Roger scanned through the categories, he felt himself blush. Was he really baring his soul in this way to the world outside? Plenty of others were doing it too, the blonde man thought, justifying the whole thing to himself. It was like being naked in a nudist camp – sort of. Except that it was all new and strange to him. Yet he couldn’t stifle the urge to go down this road, so much did it excite him. Roger decided to limit his “activities” at this stage.

 **I think about the alternative lifestyle:** Once a day, he decided.  Sometimes it was more. After today, he knew it was going to be more.  
**Role: Submissive**.  No difficulty there.  
**Sexual Orientation: Gay.** No shame here.  
**Dress: Casual.**   No, Roger didn’t fit the punk or gothic image.  That was easy, too.  
**Demeanour:  Passive.** At least in bed he was.  
**Social Orientation:**   Where did he lie? Liberal?  Moderate?  Roger didn’t even care about politics **.  ‘Prefer not to say.’**  
**Practise Safe Sex: Yes**

That was the hard stuff over.   
**Gender** : Male.  
**Born on:** 26 July 1949  
**Height (in feet):** 5’10” (Good old Americans – still living in the sixties with imperial measurements)  
**Body Type** : Slim  
**Hair Colour:** Blonde  
**Hair Length:** Medium  
**Pubic Hair:** Trimmed.  (Wow, this really was getting down to the nitty gritty.)  
**Eye Colour:** Navy blue.  
**Glasses/Contacts:** None. (of course he wasn’t going to admit that his eyesight was poor)  
**Body Decorations:** None  
**Profession:** Drummer, in a rock n' roll band.  
**Religion:** None.  
**Education:** Undergraduate Degree  
**Lives In:** London  
**Speaks:** English  
So there it was. Roger Taylor’s personality and desires reduced to a few short one-liners. Well, that really wasn’t so hard, he thought. 

The really hard part was the few lines ‘about me’ and ‘what I am looking for’. Roger was looking for a relationship, but not something that he just leapt into. He had heard too many bad stories about the weirdos out there. 

Roger wrote: “If you’re between 25 and 40, it’s a good start. If you are professional, can understand what a bottom wants and don’t have an ego problem, you may be still in with a chance. You need a modicum of intelligence and a sense of humour, and you need to be experienced in B & D.”  Roger blushed at this part. “I’m looking for honesty, consideration and respect before anything goes further. You will have to demonstrate all these things before you have a chance of meeting me for any relationship. If you still think you fit the bill, you may send me a letter.”

This didn’t sound at all like Roger. It had strong overtones of confidence and certainty that he didn’t feel, but better that way than begging to be taken advantage of. Now the act of sending this form awaited him, like some kind of irrevocable turning point in life – an act that could not be undone. To send this was so easy. The die was cast now. Nothing to do but sit back and wait.

*   *   *

It didn’t take more than a couple of weeks before Roger realised the Pandora’s box that he had opened. Thank goodness he hadn’t put a photo on the profile as well. Married, singles, young, old – anything male with a pulse had responded, it seemed. Half of them Roger could see were incapable of reading what he’d written, much less understanding it. Everybody seemed to think it was a free-for-all and that they all had a chance. It surprised him that a lot of gay men subscribed to this magazine in the first place. There followed in the ensuing weeks various exchanges, not all of them pleasant. Roger was not an aggressive person, and took the coward’s way out by not replying to as many of the non-conforming ones as he could. There were of course the persistent ones, who couldn’t take a hint, and these guys had to have it spelt out for them. Eventually Roger called the agency to take his profile down, before he ended up spending half of his day trying to satisfy raging male hormones throughout the UK seaboard.

In the end, Roger wound up continuing with two Doms – one in London and one was in Leicestershire. Roger to this day doesn’t know why he picked the latter. It wasn’t as if he had any intention of moving out of London, and thus any sort of face to face relationship wasn’t really going to happen, but the guy sounded nice. He wrote well, had a good witty sense of humour and seemed to know what he was talking about. His name was John, and Roger found himself opening up to him more, particularly in the light of what was happening on the London front. From the London Dom, after a period of correspondence, Roger finally arranged to meet Brian. 

Brian, in all honesty, was a unique man. Roger might almost have called him handsome, if he went for guys like that. Brian was older than him and much taller than Roger did. He had a slim figure with long-legged legs that made him slightly hunched when he walked. He has long bushy hair and brown eyes that screamed rock and roll.  He gave the impression of elegance and strength, not least through his big hands which wrapped around Roger’s as if they belonged to a doll. Brian smiled easily and they talked for a long time over coffee at a small café in Central London, but Roger could not help distil the feeling that there was something not quite right about Brian – that there was something he was not telling Roger.

Predictably enough, Brian got the elbow, and Roger continued to correspond with John on an almost daily basis via the mail. John Deacon, Roger found was someone he could open up to about his assessment of Brian without worrying about competing interests, because he had already made it clear to John that this was to be a long distance relationship only. He was happy with that, and gradually Roger came to see him as, well, not exactly a mentor, but one with whom he could share the goings on in his life (such as they were) and get some unbiased feedback. John liked to know about Roger’s life and gave solution to his problems that actually helped him.

Roger was still playing it slowly, and Brian appeared to be in no rush to get him hanging from the rafters or bound to the bed, and he liked that. But inevitably, Roger knew he had to take the plunge. Brian pushed him gently, and finally it was decision time. Roger had talked of all manner of things, not least scenarios he would like to explore, and so the time came to decide to go with Brian.

Roger had discussed the matter by letter with John, who advised him to go to Brian’s place.  This seemed to make sense in one way, for Roger had no ‘equipment’ at his house, nor – despite Brian’s apparently amiable exterior – did Roger want him to know where he lived at that time.  He was not prepared to do that until considerably more water had gone under the proverbial bridge. John obviously sensed his wariness and offered Roger to help. He promised to call John during his date with Brian.  He was Roger’s ‘safe’, his backup in case things went wrong.

Roger prepared himself for his foray into this strange world. What did one wear on a bondage date?  He had no idea.  He chose a fawn-coloured leather pants and a shirt that showed off his slim figure. He decided to just leave his shoulder-length hair a little tousled, as Freddie would say: Roger’s inviting-take-me-to-bed look. He eyed himself in the mirror, smoothing the shirt over his still firm stomach. ‘Not bad,’ he thought.  ‘Not bad for twenty-five-year old.  You’ll do.’

Roger had never actually spoken to John before, but he wanted to make contact before he arrived at Brian’s place. Roger phoned John before he drove down towards the city.  
“Hello?”  The voice on the other end was deep and had a slight nasal sound.

Roger smiled at the phone. “John, this is Roger.  Hi.”   
“Rog!”  There seemed to be new warmth in the voice. “This is a pleasure.  How are you?  Where are you?”  
“In the car, on my way to see Brian.”  
“Ah, I see,” His voice didn’t give any indication of annoyance, so Roger continued.  
“I want you to be my insurance. Is that okay?” Roger asked meekly, afraid that the other man would suddenly change his mind.  
“Sure.  First, tell me what’s the address that you’re going to?”  
“It’s 4 Windelham Road, Surrey,” answered Roger. He wanted everything to be safe.  
“Is that his house?”  
“I assume so.” That’s where Brian told Roger anyways.  
“And you’re due when?”  
“In about forty minutes.”

“All right.  Now here’s what to do.” Roger liked the sound of John.  He seemed to be like what his mail exchange with Roger had been – practical, warm and no-nonsense.  His voice had a sense that he used to give command, Roger guessed. “You must ring me every one to two hours until you leave. A few minutes on either side is okay, since it may not be convenient at the time. If you don’t ring, I’ll ring you at ten minutes past the hour. I assume you’ve got his number?”  
“Yes,” answered Roger, since he and Brian had met and gave Roger his landline number.  
“Then give it to me.” Roger did so. “Good. Now when you ring you can tell me everything’s fine – assuming it is. If it’s not, and you’re scared and feel you’re in trouble, tell me ‘pleasant dreams’ before you hang up. That’s your emergency code. If you say that, I’ll call the cops. Is that clear?”  
“Yes.”  
“Listen Roger, what we’re talking about here is part of the deal when a new sub does his first session – and sometimes for subsequent ones too.  It’s not a sign of distrust, just a safety precaution.  If your Dom is as experienced as he appears to be, he will take it in his stride. He won’t be offended. It’s all part of the game.” A pause, then:

“You must be nervous.” It was a statement, not a question.  
“Yes,” Roger’s throat seemed to have gone dry.  
“Sure you want to go through with this?”  
“No, but yes – if that makes sense. It probably doesn’t. It’s a new start I have to make.” Roger tried to laugh it off. “Any final advice for the condemned?” He chuckled.  
The response was calm but serious. “Roger, I haven’t met you face to face, but I have a fair idea of who you are from your mails. This is a great thing you’re doing – I recognise the courage it takes. But it’s something to be taken seriously. This guy could be inept – or worse. Either way you could get hurt. You’ve met him, so I assume he passes first barrier. I don’t want to put you off something I hope you’re going to enjoy – just remember that. That’s ultimately the purpose of it all.”

“Now, have you talked about limits?” he asked.  
“You mean…?”  
“What you like to do, what you can take, what he likes to do.”  
“Sort of.”  
“And you’re comfortable with that?”  
“I… maybe not.”  
“Why? Because he hasn’t really spelt out what he wants yet? Am I right? He’s given you a spiel about training and stuff. Look Roger, you may be a sub, but before you put that mindset into place you have to know what you’re going to be asked to do. If he tells you to jump out the window, you’re not going to do it, are you?” John chided Roger.  
“Of course not,” Roger felt more nervous by the second.

“Good. A slave might, but not a submissive. Just remember the game stops when you leave his house, which you will be doing. Don’t let him get too much inside your mind. Stay focussed on what’s happening and you may get to Sub space.”  
“Sub space?”   
“That’s where subs go when they’re being pushed to their limits.” Roger could almost hear the smile in his voice as he said that. “It’s a submissive thing – don’t ask me to explain it.  It’s a kind of sub Nirvana, I think – a higher astral plain.  You’ll have to tell me if you get there.  
“And don’t forget your safeword for your Dom.  I assume you have one?”  
“Yes – I hum ‘Happy Birthday’.” There was a laugh from the other end.   
“I like that. No doubt you can do that even with something stuffed in your mouth.”  
“Uh-huh.” Roger didn’t tell him that he had bought a rubber ball at the local pet shop and threaded it on a dog collar from the same place. Yes, even with that wedged behind Roger’s teeth, he could get out a recognisable version of ‘Happy Birthday’.” That was the same day he had been to the hardware store and bought some rope and plastic cable ties. Armed with these Roger had slipped his wrists through multiple loops of rope and used a plastic tie to cinch the ropes. The only way he could undo myself was to cut the rope or tie, and after a few panicky moments, Roger had done it relatively easily.

That was the start of a weekend where Roger stayed that way, bound hand and foot and gagged with tape, until the ice holding the pair of scissors secured to a high cupboard handle had finally melted.  It had taken a long time, but the thoughts he had in that time left him hot, wet and frustrated. It was an eye-opener for roger and had convinced him that he was doing the right thing.  
Now Roger was going to let someone else do it to him.  
“Umm, John, look, it’s almost time. Thanks for your help, John – I really mean it. We’ll talk in an hour – yes?”  
“Sure, take care of yourself, Roger,”  Then the phone clicked and he was gone.

*   *   *

The house was a brick and plaster two-storey affair with an attached garage on the right hand side. It had probably been built in the fifties, and as such was nothing startling architecturally. But it looked neat and presentable with a well-kept garden, and given the desirability of the area, Roger knew Brian was definitely not hard up. That was confirmed by the Audi parked under the carport outside the garage.

Brian was his charming self and Roger hoped his nervousness was not betraying him. His hands seemed to be shaking, although when he held them out to examine them as Brian prepared a drink, they gave no outward sign of the tremors he felt inside.  
The interior of the house was cool and comfortable, with dark panelling and ornate plaster cornices. They sat in the living room for a short while, chatting.  Brian was obviously doing his best to put Roger at ease, and the vodka and lemon certainly helped as well. The drummer could have gone a second one, but Brian didn’t offer one, probably detecting (rightly) that he would start to go silly with too much alcohol.  
“Are you ready to go?” Brian finally asked.

“Yes,” Roger said, swallowing. This was it. He picked up his handbag and followed Brian through the kitchen to a side door, which he guessed led to the garage.  So this was where it all happened. He turned on the light and Roger let his eyes rove over the various pulleys and frames that occupied the double car space. He felt the butterflies go mad in his stomach, but it was as much excitement as nervousness.  
“Now you can see what’s in the arsenal,” Brian said with a wry smile.  He was wearing jeans and a white tee shirt with some Japanese characters on it, which made him look considerably younger than the last time Roger had seen him, when he had been dressed in a thoroughly respectable business suit.  “Is there anything here you don’t think you can handle?”

Roger looked about at the whips, floggers and paddles hanging in their appointed places on the wall. There were several gags in different harness configurations and a considerable assortment of ropes and chains and cuffs.  
“I – I don’t want to be whipped,” Roger eventually blurted.  
“That’s fine,” Brian said encouragingly. “We may change your mind in due course, but there’s no hurry. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable with each stage. You remember your safeword?”  
“I’ll hum ‘Happy Birthday’,” Roger answered meekly.  
“And you don’t even need to know the words,” he murmured, half to himself. “All right, take off your clothes.”  
The surprised drummer exclaimed, “What?”  
“I’m hardly going to do much to you in that state, pet.” His tone was abruptly firm, his eyes sterner. “Now do as you’re told.” 

Something in his voice cut right through Roger and he lowered his eyes submissively to avoid meeting his, at once occupying himself with the buttons down the front of his shirt.  Roger was suddenly too far gone to retreat now. Somewhere in the last minute, his brain had made a decision that was irrevocable, and Roger knew he had to do what Brian said. His shirt dropped to the floor followed by his pants. Roger stood there in his underwear while Brian moved behind him. He could feel the chill running down his spines. Brian started to circle him like a predator.  
“No.  Stay as you are.  You will now do only as I say, when I say it.  Do you understand?”  
“Yes,” Roger abruptly answered  
“Yes ... what?”  
“Yes – sir.”  Roger heard the falter in his voice. Could he really go through with this?

“Tell me, Roger,” Brian said in a serious tone, “when I show you this, what do you think of it?”  He held up a collar in front of Roger.  It was maybe 4 centimetres wide, made of heavy black patent leather. “What does it mean to you?”  Roger’s mind was momentarily blank.  “Just say the first thing that comes into your head.  Like those word association tests.  Now… collar.”  
“Slave,” he felt unsure.  
“Good. Anything else?”  
“Uh…belonging…security…I don’t know sir…”  
“Very good, pet. I am impressed. Would you like to try it on?” Brian’s voice was full of pride as he praised Roger with his newfound pet name.  
“Yes,  sir.” Roger felt a strange tingling started building inside his stomach. It was like when someone you looked up to gave you their approval. It surprisingly felt good.

The strong fingers looped the leather about Roger’s slender neck and he caught his breath as the loose end slipped through the buckle and closed snugly about his neck.  It felt nice, somehow… Kind of comforting.  Roger could not believe he was thinking like this.  He felt his cock started to stir in his pants as he stood there while Brian waited behind him, out of view.   
“The collar is a very symbolic accessory, Rog.  It is representative of your being totally under my control, to do as I command without hesitation.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in.  “But it is also symbolic of a trusting relationship. Do you trust me, Roger?”  
“Yes, sir,” Roger said without a thought. 

He felt the movement of air as Brian came up and stood directly behind him. The room was still enough that Roger could hear his own breathing and the rustle of Brian’s clothes. Then a soft leather blindfold descended and Roger’s world became dark as his new dom buckled it behind his head. He sensed a feeling of powerlessness, as if at that moment Roger had yielded to something that it was now beyond his power to resist.

The blindfolded man stood there, aware of his master’s movement as he slowly walked around him. Roger knew Brian was studying him, assessing him, appraising both his mental and physical abilities and capacities. No doubt Brian had done it with dozens of other submissives who had come to this garage before Roger. Those dozens had no doubt been bound, chained, gagged, whipped and tormented to whatever extremes they could endure, be they the heights of pain, sexual frustration or sexual pleasure. Before Roger lost his sight, he had noted that where the garage roller door should be, there was just a blank wall. Clearly the garage had been converted for this reason alone – soundproofing was evidently a must.

Brian was in front of him now. The now shivering drummer could almost feel Brian’s breath on his face.  His hands rested on Roger’s shoulders then gripped him momentarily by the biceps, before running gently down Roger’s arms.  His skin tingled at his touch and Roger could feel his cock growing harder. Damn. Why did men’s bodies always give their arousals away like that? Then Brian’s fingers slowly started to roam the front of Roger’s body, and his perfidious nipples betrayed him entirely. His fingers touched them lightly then gripped them and twisted them until Roger gritted his teeth and bit back a moan.

“Very good, Roger,” Brian murmured.  “Very nice, too, I might add.  How do you think they would look with a couple of clamps on them?” 

Roger said nothing.  The thought scared him, but excited him, too.  He wanted it, but didn’t want it. “I asked you a question, pet.  I expect an answer.”  The voice was hard and crisp. “Well?”  
“I – I don’t know sir.”  
“I think we may just find out tonight… Would you like that?” Brian’s voice was soft but demanding at the same time.  
“Uh… yes,” The drummer blurted without thinking.  
“What?”  There was a sharp smack of Brian’s hand on his rump.  
“Yes, sir!” Roger shrieked quickly in surprise.  
“Good.  Now hold out your hands,” ordered him with authority.

So this was it. Roger was getting tied up. He felt the soft cotton sash cord winded maybe ten times about his wrists, drawing them firmly but not over-tightly together. Then there were a couple of cinches around the whole lot that left them rigidly linked. Roger was propelled gently a few steps forward where moments later he heard the sound of what must have been a hand winch obviously winding a cable that was going to haul his arms above him. 

Sure enough, Roger felt his arms rose up and he found himself trying to balance his body under the suspending rope. The clicking of the winch stopped just as he felt himself start to stretch to the point where his bare feet began to lift off the ground. Then came the soft sound of Brian’s clacking shoes as he walked across to Roger. His heart was pounding in his ribcage and his breathing was fast and shallow.  
Then Roger felt Brian’s hands were on him again, caressing his body and doing nothing to slow his heart rate and the pumping blood that rushed down to his cock.  
“You have a very nice figure, pet,” he told Roger. “Do you work out?”  
“No, sir. But I occasionally play drum.”  
“Of course you do,” he said, as though Roger hadn’t answered his question at all. His hand brushed across Roger’s stomach and slid down inside where Roger’s bulge was clearly apparent. Jesus. 

“I think these must go. Don’t you agree, Roger?” His name escaped Brian’s tongue like a velvet.  
“Uh… yes, sir.” Roger knew where it was leading, and suddenly he wanted it to go down that path.

Brian’s fingers yanked on Roger’s underwear in one swift movement, and suddenly, Roger was fully aware that he was naked. The loss of the last piece of clothes he got on his body made the rope holding his arms tighter and Roger found himself standing in front of Brian May with his cock standing on its glory without any modesty whatsoever. Then it was more of the hands – just a gentle touch, roving here and there with the lightness of a feather which made Roger squirm.  
There was a pause, then the suspension rope unwound a fraction and his arms lowered slightly.   
“I think we need full access to everything, love. Are you in agreement?” Brian’s voice was husky and his eyes, oh, his beautiful brown orbs stare at Roger’s blindfolded one. He wasn’t sure what he meant, but speechless Roger could only say “yes, sir” quietly. Being depraved of his eyesight forced Roger to listen to everything the other man said and judged his mood accordingly.

His intentions were clear moments later when a leather cuff was buckled snugly about Roger’s left ankle.  It was attached to a spreader bar which forced his feet apart before the opposite cuff was secured to his right ankle. Then it was tension on the suspension rope and poor Roger was being really stretched on his tiptoes again. His breathing was ragged now – Roger realised he was breathing through his mouth. It was a combination of his total helplessness, the tautness of the position, and those hands again.

Brian took his sweet moment by reaching a bottle of lube tucked in one of his cabinets and squirted some amounts onto his fingers. After making sure that his fingers were thoroughly coated with lube, Brian’s fingers were lightly, oh-so -teasingly touching his cock, his balls and finally twining amongst his cheeks and delving into Roger’s hole, eliciting a loud gasp from the drummer. 

It had been a long time since anybody’s fingers but Roger’s own had ventured into that territory, and he had forgotten what it was like.  Of course everything was heightened by the lead-up to Roger’s current predicament, and he kept gasping and moaning uncontrollably as Brian added another long finger and hit deep in Roger’s hole. He pushed his fingers in and out, going deeper and deeper with each thrust, and eventually found his sensitive prostate.  
“Ohhh – shit!” he moaned softly, half to himself, and somewhat louder than he meant to.  
The delicious movement inside Roger halted immediately. “What?”  
“Nothing – sir,” Roger whispered.  
“You said ‘shit’, pet.  What kind of talk is that?” Brian didn’t move his fingers. Instead, he kept it still in such an angle that his finger only lightly touched Roger’s prostate, driving him crazier.  
“I’m sorry, sir,” his voice trembled slightly, partly from missing the hard pressure against his prostate by Brian’s finger.  
Unfortunately, Brian withdrew his finger from Roger’s hole and smirked evilly, “So you will be, my dear. I’ll not have that sort of language in my presence. You realise what this means?”  
“No, sir,” whimpered Roger pathetically, silently begging for Brian’s fingers to fuck him again.  
“Oh come on, Rog, are you dense as well as rude? You commit a crime and what happens?”  
“I get punished?” Roger ventured unhappily.  
“Correct. You must learn to conduct yourself with the appropriate decorum as befits a young sub. We must think of something appropriate.”

Roger’s heart sank. Brian was going to get those clamps, he was sure of it. Roger just wished he would go back to what he was doing. That’s when the ringing started. What was it? Then Roger realised it was from the landline in the far corner of the room that he saw earlier before his eyes were blindfolded.  
The ringing stopped. Brian, scowling because his moment was interrupted, turned away from Roger to reach for the cordless landline across the room.

“Hello? Yes, he’s here.  One moment.”  Brian was back and the phone was pressed against his ear.  With an effort, he focussed on reality.  
“Hello?”  
“Roger?  It’s John. You didn’t call. Are you okay?” Answered the familiar voice from the other end.  
“Yeah, sure. Sorry.  Just a bit... tied up at the moment,” Roger blushed, admitting his current condition to John right now was weirder than he’d previously thought.  
“Very funny. And not original, I hate to tell you.  All right, I won’t bother you anymore.  Want me to call back in an hour?” Roger could hear the amusement in John’s voice.  
Roger considered for a moment. He didn’t want to let John down for willingly checking up on Roger. That was sweet of him. “Yes, if you would. Thank you, John.  Goodbye.”  
“Bye, Rog.  Behave yourself.” A bit late for that now, Roger thought ruefully as John hanged up the phone.

“Sorry sir,” Roger said, embarrassed. What would Brian think of him now?  
“That’s quite all right, pet. I understand your concerns and I have no problem with them. It’s a normal thing to do, really. It will be better for you in one way, in that at least it will give you a break every hour or so – is that your time interval?”  
“Yes, sir,” Roger silently sighed in relief.  
“Good. Whether those breaks will be from something unpleasant, or something overwhelmingly pleasurable, we will have to see. But I believe the direction was going down the road of the former, wasn’t it?”   
“Yes, sir.”  
“Meaning what?” Brian’s tone once again deepened.  
“Meaning I was going to be punished, sir.”  
“Absolutely right.  And why?”  
“Because I was rude, sir?”  
“Right again, clever boy,” Roger blushed.

He was silent for perhaps a minute. Roger stood there, feeling his body start to tremble again. He did not know what to expect from Brian’s movement as his world is not pitch dark, and the tension in his arms, legs and body was starting to exacerbate his fears. Roger then heard steps again, and he knew that Brian was in front of him. His hands were again running over his nipples, causing Roger’s heart to race as he flicked and teased his rock hard nipples. He swallowed another moan that threatened to rise in his throat, but it was to no point when the sharp pain erupted in each nipple as Brian released some sort of metal clamp on to each of Roger’s poor nipple.

Roger had sort of expected it, but the reality of the pain overwhelmed the warm glow of pleasure he was starting to build up to under Brian’s earlier-questing fingers. All that feelings abruptly disappeared in the immediacy of the fire in Roger’s nipples.  
“Ow! Ow! Oh shit! Sir! I’m sorry! Please take them off!  I’ll be good!”  As a resolute slave under torture, Roger did sound pretty pathetic. He was ready to plead and whine and promise anything just to get them off.  Roger was not used to them, that was for sure, but he had a suspicion his immediate wishes were not going to be respected.  This was confirmed when Roger felt something protruding against his mouth. In Roger’s mid-protest, Brian had slipped in the ball gag snugly.

It was made of hard rubber, and was not so big that Roger couldn’t deal with it. He suspected that Brian had a lot worse gags of that type available, but the speeh-deprived blonde was wholly preoccupied with the thing now wedged behind his teeth and buckled tightly behind his neck. As a diversion from the pain in his nipples, Roger fought the invader in his mouth, trying to chew on it or push it out with his tongue, but he made no progress whatsoever. Roger shook my head despairingly and made futile nasal-moaning noises. Now he couldn’t even express his pleasure or pain properly, nor could he communicate with Brian except in the direst circumstances, when his ‘happy birthday’ routine might save him.

It all suddenly became scary, and Roger realised how totally under Brian’s control he was. Roger was his plaything to torment and torture as Brian saw fit.  Another phone call from John was an hour away. Even assuming he called the cops, how long would they take to get here? Roger panicked at that point, flinging himself against the ropes holding his wrists and the cuffs securing his ankles. It was all pretty futile. He swung about, spinning a bit as one foot left the floor, but Roger knew he could not escape. He was irrevocably captured, and all actions subsequent to this moment were going to be responses to outside events, not of his own volition. 

Perhaps Roger could have started humming at that moment while continued trashing to let him know that Roger was not really comfortable with this. Brian let him have his little outburst. After a minute, all the fight went out of him and Roger stood meekly whimpering. The pain in his nipples – momentarily increased by his efforts, now appeared to be slowly settling into a dull pain.  
“Are you finished with your little tantrum?” Brian’s rhetorical question sounded calm and unfazed. A hand cupped Roger’s chin and a finger wiped away a line of drool that had dribbled from around the ball in his mouth. “Relax, pet. Things could be worse.  They may well get worse, in fact. But they may get better as well.  Importantly, there is no escape now.  You may as well relax and go with the flow.”

*   *   *

And that was how Roger accepted his position and his role as a submissive. The evening progressed in a series of somewhat contorted positions, all of which were accompanied by various torments of the pleasurable or painful kind. Roger had his butts paddled – obviously a stage or two down from the whip and the riding crop, but he could cope with that. The clamps of course eventually came off his nipples, only to be replaced a couple of more times as Roger’s frustration reached new heights. Brian was a master of driving Roger to the brink and bringing him down to earth with a thump through the application of some painful element of persuasion. All of this was, of course, interrupted by John Deacon two more times. By that stage Roger was almost past caring, so frustrated was he at what was happening. Perhaps his impatience came out, and Roger is sure he wasn’t the most diplomatic of call recipients. But John was true to his word and continued to call Roger to make sure that everything was alright with him. 

When came the inevitable time for Brian to partake of some physical pleasure himself, Roger almost cried with relief.  He had let him climax a couple of times prior to the final performance, but this had been a long time in coming. Roger was bent at right angles over a padded horse, his ankles and wrists strapped to the base. Suffice to say, he could not move a muscle. He had had a couple of changes of gag in the hours – however many they had been – that he had been kept prisoner, and now wore several strips of tape over his mouth, over which a discipline hood had been drawn and laced closed down the back of Roger’s head.   
His world was still dark and muffled. The sweat had poured off of his body as he strained and moaned in response to the teasing and testing Brian had put him through.

 “Are you ready for the real thing now?” he finally asked Roger. He nodded his head as emphatically as he  could with it hanging between his downward-stretched arms.  
“Are you sure?”

Roger nodded again, moaning his acceptance. Jesus he was so horny and frustrated he could not believe myself.  Roger had never considered himself to have a high sex drive or demanding, but he had never experienced this sort of build up before. Vibrators in his stretched hole, clamps and manual stimulation had never come in this intensity before, and Roger had always been able to bail out if it all became too much. He had been helpless to resist for hours, now, and he was nearing the end of his strength. But God, Roger wanted ‘the real thing’ before the session ended.

Roger had to say that Brian was not a disappointment, although being brutally frank, almost anything would have pushed him over the edge at that point. When he drove into Roger from behind, slipping inside his stretched cheeks and parted legs, Roger exploded almost instantly, jerking and moaning to the little extent that he could. Of course Brian wasn’t satisfied with that, and it took another couple of performances from Roger before the older man shuddered and convulsed inside Roger. By this time with his head down, Roger was seeing stars and the blood was pounding incessantly in his ears, mixed with his nasal moaning that must also have been continuous.

Then it was over.  There was a tug on each wrist as the ropes were undone and a voice said: “That’s it, Rog.  It’s over. You may go home now. You did well. You may see yourself out through the side door.” Short and clipped, as expected from a professional dom.

And that was it.  Roger barely understood what Brian was telling him.  The release of the tension on his arms was so wonderful but disappointing at the same time. Roger slowly straightened up, lifting his sweat-drenched body away from the leather of the horse. He managed to find and undo the knot at the back of the hood and worked it off his head, then pulled away the tape from his mouth. Roger was still seeing flashes of light, but the noise in his ears lessened with his standing erect. With difficulty Roger managed to free his ankles and stepped away from the horse. 

‘How long was it since I first had those cords wrapped around my wrists?’ Roger thought.

Brian was gone. The door into the house was locked when he tried it. Roger didn’t care – he was past any analysis of what anything significant at that point. On a bench was a bottle of water which the now-exhausted man drank greedily. Roger put on his clothes without bothering with his underwear. The perspiration soaked into the soft cotton material but the night outside was warm since it was summer and there was no danger of getting a chill.

Roger moved slowly, as though in a dream.  His head was a mass of thoughts and his body a myriad of sensations, many of which were in conflict and few of which made any sense. He sat in the car under the streetlight for perhaps ten minutes, just letting everything settle down and allowing his heart to regain its normal rate. Roger was just about to drive off when the phone inside the basement once again rang.  
“Hello?” Roger answered with a tired voice.  
“Hello again Roger, it’s me, John. Am I to assume you have survived, since you’re answering in person now?”  
“Uh – yes. I guess.”  
“You guess?”  
“Yes, I survived. I’m just about to go home. Shit, I feel absolutely shagged. I was, in fact.”  
“Was it that good?” Typical soft, kind-hearted John. He always cared about Roger’s well-being. Still Roger smiled excitedly, ready to sum up his night with John.  
“Oh John – you have no idea.  In fact I had no idea until tonight. It’s opened a new door for me.”  
“I’m glad to know. You sounded a bit out of it at one stage,” said John, reminiscing the fact that Roger almost bit his head off earlier on the phone.  
A rush of guilt suddenly filled John. He quickly answered, “I probably was. If I said anything rude – I’m sorry, John.”  
“That’s okay.  I’m pleased to hear that you had a good time.” His tone sounded sincere and Roger felt a bit relief. He didn’t want to drive John away with his bitchy attitude when he had so kindly looked out for Roger.  
“Thanks.  Look, John, I just need to collect my thoughts for a bit. I’ll call you again tomorrow, yes?”  
“Sure. Sleep well, gorgeous.”  
“No problem there.” I laughed shakily. “Night.”

They hanged up the phone and Roger hopped into his car, driving away from Brian May’s estate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get better, I promise ;) This is only the beginning, after all. Hope you enjoy this chapter, folks. - V.


	4. The Degradation of Roger Taylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger got a job offer in Manchester and Brian was not at all happy with this news.

** Welcome Darkness, My New World **

**Chapter 4 – The Degradation of Roger Taylor**

 

The relationship with Brian carried on from there. Roger guessed that that evening was “the hook” – the bait that dragged him in to the point where he couldn’t fight his own desires. Roger went to Brian’s place a number of times after that. Each time, things got a little more severe. The positions became more stringent, the clamps more frequent, and the paddling turned to a flogging which turned to a whipping. But Roger couldn’t help himself. 

The drummer learnt how to kneel beside Brian, how to mix his drink, and albeit horrible, Roger even cooked several meals for him. These things were to a large extent incidental to the bondage, however. Roger put up with them because they were a forerunner to the main event, the thought of which usually made his cock stirred in his pants long before Brian started on him. He thought it was the expectation and the uncertainty, tempered with the knowledge that whatever happened, Roger would walk out at the end of the session, even though he would be helpless to resist until that point.

There was no point in getting John to phone in every hour. This merely destroyed Roger’s focus and interrupted the flow of the session. Said sessions themselves, while becoming harder for him, were no less in intensity than he had experienced on the first evening.  However, Brian himself seemed to be becoming more distant - and less forgiving. Roger felt that the curly-haired man had been easy on him the first time, but his patience was markedly less now, and any deviation from his rules would lead to punishment. And despite Brian’s whippings and emotional detachment, Roger still came back for more, and still emerged exhausted but fulfilled in a way he would not have thought possible a year previously.

Brian’s attitude did not allow Roger to get closer to him. There was no sharing of thoughts and emotions, nor the initial warmth that Roger had found in their first meetings. Eventually, his fondness for Brian waned, but Roger still couldn’t pry himself from the punishment his master handed out to him – or the pleasure that came with it.

All this time, Roger still continued to communicate with John, and the counsellor leant him moral support and guidance, for which he was thankful. At the same time, Roger was searching for a more permanent job than the part-time job as an occasional drummer he had done since arriving in London. He didn’t give much thought about his degree as a biologist (which he miraculously graduated in), since Roger felt that college was only an obligation to get a degree for his last resort if being in a band didn’t work out.

It was during the course of such job-hunting that Roger was interviewed by a partner for a small medical practice in Manchester. Roger had never been to Manchester, but the offer that followed the interview was an attractive one, and they gave him two days to think it over.  That was the day before he had another appointment with Brian, and Roger told him over the phone what he was thinking of doing. In hindsight, he recognises now that it might not have been a tactically astute thing to do.

 

*

 

Brian did not mention the possibility of Roger moving to Manchester – at least not in their initial contact that night. But the drummer, although most people told that he was a thick person, could sense there was a change in Brian. He knew better than to ask questions. The lanky man appeared moody and uncommunicative. There were no pleasantries, just a brief greeting.   
“Go to the garage, undress, and lock your gag and collar on.” Brian barked harshly.  
“Yes, sir,” Roger said meekly, going through his periodic routine of hating himself the way he carried on sometimes.

He entered the garage, with it’s by now familiar smells of leather, wood and sex entered Roger’s nose. His collar was on the floor, attached by a six-inch chain to an eyebolt set in an exposed patch of the concrete floor in the corner. ‘What was this all about?’ he wondered. It was a departure from their usual routine. Beside the collar was a red ball gag on a matching strap. Two padlocks lay on the concrete.

Roger slipped his clothes and shoes off. He no longer wore underwear to these sessions. He had decided it was superfluous, what with him getting excited enough before he arrived, and then not having the strength to be bothered dressing properly when he left.

Roger worked the ball into his mouth and behind his teeth, then pulled the strap behind his head. This had become part of their routine, part of Roger’s training, he guessed.  The act of making Roger gag himself was perhaps designed to humiliate him just that tad more. He at least had the luxury of making sure the thing sat properly, but not of leaving it loose. The blonde sub had done that once and had had a nasty attack of the riding crops as a consequence. The pin of the buckle slipped easily into the customary hole and he clicked the lock home through the next hole and the D-ring. It sent a shiver down his spine every time he felt a padlock close. It excited him with the finality and helplessness of what was about to happen and over which he had no control.

Then Roger turned to the collar. He checked the room, but there were no other collars lying about and he knew this was the one he had used in the past. The difference was the fact that it was chained to the eyebolt in the corner. He knew there was no mistake, and crawling on to his knees, he managed to get the collar buckled up and locked with the second padlock. In that position, Roger’s nose was almost touching the ground and his head could be rested against the two adjoining brick walls. It was not a comfortable position, for the concrete beneath the carpet was cold, and he felt immensely vulnerable with his bum either resting on his calves or raised in the air.

Even though he was not blindfolded, he could see very little from his position in the corner. Brian did not appear within a few minutes and his first feelings of unease began to reappear. Time is a very relative thing in bondage, Roger had discovered.  In sensory-deprived situations, ten minutes can seem like an hour without a reference point.  Perhaps half an hour had passed and there was still no Brian. Then Roger heard the front door close in the distance, and faint steps culminating in a car door opening and closing beyond the front wall of the garage. It was Brian getting into his Audi. The engine started and he drove off. 

Jesus, Roger thought, suddenly panicky. What was going on? All sorts of bizarre ideas raced through his brain. Was Brian on his way to the airport, leaving him here for the night – or days… Or worse, he was on his way to pick up some mates to come and take advantage of Roger… He had set light to the house for insurance purposes… Now Roger knew he was behaving stupidly. All his scientific training with its analytical basis of observation and deduction suddenly seemed to go out the window. The now bound and helpless man struggled with his bonds, tugging at the collar with all his might, but it was immovable, and try as he might he could not dislodge the gag. Roger moaned piteously and managed not to cry only through delving into his recesses of self-control. He finally convinced himself that Brian was playing his mind games again, letting Roger’s thoughts conjure up these very images that were so disconcerting for him. 

It was perhaps half an hour later that the car returned and tired Roger let the sense of relief flood over him. He was starting to shiver from the cold of the concrete. He had had to alternate the cramped kneeling position with lying down, which was less restricted, but even colder. Then the door opened and Brian, in all his glory, entered the room.  
“Still here, I see?” he asked unnecessarily, there was a disconcerting smirk on his lips.  
“Epph ur,” Roger intoned as best he could around the ball in his mouth.  
“Excellent. You’ve coped well.” There came the faint footsteps on the carpet and Roger knew his master was behind him. Roger was kneeling again at this stage when Brian roughly grabbed his wrists and pulled them together, crossed, behind his back.

“I think we need these out of the way before we go on,” Brian told the helpless man in front of him. The removal of his hands from where they had been helping support Roger’s weight up front put extra stain on his back, and he shuffled his knees closer to his chin to spread the load less unevenly. 

Roger felt the familiar sensation of the cotton ropes being wrapped securely around his wrists, melding one to the other. He always found the crossed-wrist position more hurtful if he dared to move, for they seemed to offer less scope for arm movement. A couple of minutes later, his wrists were secured rigidly at right angles to each other. He knew there were a couple of tails, or trailing ends, floating about, as they periodically brushed his buttocks. The tails were there for a purpose, however, for no sooner had Brian tied his wrists than the tails were obviously threaded through an eyebolt higher up the wall, and Roger’s arms began to get hauled up behind him, rotating at the shoulder. Predictably, his head went down until it was pressed against the small patch of exposed concrete next to the eyebolt in the floor. 

With his hair tousled around his face, Roger groaned and protested as Brian pulled on the rope and pain seemed to fill his arms and back. Roger raised his rump in an effort to lessen the angle between his arms and back. That was when Brian stopped and tied off the rope at the eyebolt.  His next point of attention was Roger’s ankles, which he proceeded to work further apart before tying them to some sort of short pole. His tied legs were nearly at right angles, parallel with the two walls forming the corner. Roger was starting to get really uncomfortable now – or so he thought.

Today, it seemed, Brian didn’t take his sweet time to torture Roger. He was preoccupied with things more penetrative than usual. He inserted first a nozzle load of lubricant then his finger forcefully in between Roger’s cheek. He moaned and tried to shake his head no. Roger wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of his safeword just yet, but hoped he would tire of this avenue. 

Alas it didn’t seem like it was going to happen, as two fingers then continued their exploration. Brian didn’t crisscrossed his fingers, only teasing Roger’s hole so it was wet with lubricants. They withdrew only to be replaced by something rather more artificial, and Roger realised he was about to be the recipient of a rather huge buttplug pressed snugly against his still-too-small opening. ‘No, Brian, please – not this way,’ Roger thought while trying to struggle futilely against his bond as the first sharp pain came with the penetration.

“Relax, Rog,” came the voice. “Don’t clench your muscles – it will only hurt all the more. This is going to happen one way or the other. Your tight little butthole is going to be reamed very thoroughly, you filthy slut!”

This was a new tone in Brian’s voice – sharp and abusive, and suddenly Roger was afraid. Something was happening – something had made him angry, and then Roger knew it was the remark he had made earlier about maybe going to Manchester. 

There came another sharp pain from his hole as Brian thrust the plug in further, then withdrew and pushed again. The pain was awful, but Roger willed himself to relax his muscles as much as he could. It felt like his sphincter was going to split, even though Roger knew perfectly well from his experience what a marvellously flexible group of muscles it was. There was a sudden spasm of pain and then he knew it was fully inside him, filling him with a strange sensation as the pain eased. 

Things stopped at that point for a short while. Roger was conscious of Brian’s presence, and himself, what with his arms and arse in the air, the latter no doubt sporting the base of a plug for the world to see.

“So you’re off to Manchester, huh,” came the voice. “Off to your other phone Dom.” Roger remembered he had told Brian about John, but not about his location. John lived in Leicestershire anyway.

‘Was that what this was all about?’ Roger wondered. Was it a jealousy thing? Roger tried to say that it was not true and that he hadn’t even made up his mind to accept the job. But other than a few nasal pleadings, he didn’t get very far. That was when the first cane stroke fell.  
Roger screamed into the rubber ball.  
“Nnnnnn!”

He had experienced the paddles and floggers from Brian before and actually didn’t mind them, in his own private fantasy world. But this pain was so far beyond anything like that.  It seared across his taut bare buttocks like a welding rod. Seemingly overcame by jealousy, Brian struck Roger again; the smack of the cane preceded by a fearful swishing as he made several air shots that made the blonde drummer cringe as much as he could.   
With the fall of the second blow Roger went wild, jerking frantically at his bonds and making desperate ‘mmmph!’ noises around the rubber ball wedged behind his teeth. Remembering his safeword, he started on ‘happy birthday’ – humming for all he was worth.

The third blow fell, criss-crossing the previous two. Roger’s bottom was on fire and he was absolutely helpless. There was a pause, as though Brian was lining him up, and a fourth strike landed, not so hard, but vertically, straight down his crack on to the base of the butt plug, pushing it deeper into his prostate and making his cock unwillingly hardened at the sudden intrusion. He almost left the ground, forgetting his rendition as happy birthday dissolved into incoherent pleadings for mercy and lust.

“What a slut you are, look at how turned on I’ve made you,” Brian’s voice suddenly came behind him and squeezed Roger’s hard cock with more force than necessary. He couldn’t help but emitting an involuntary moan and jerk his head at the sensation. It was too much.

“A slut, however, doesn’t deserve to get his satisfaction granted if they want to repent, don’t you agree with me, Rog?” The ruthless master declared while giving Roger’s cock one last forceful jerk before stepping away to torture the poor blonde more.

Tears were streaming down Roger’s face as the fifth stroke cut into his flesh. He felt the joints in his shoulders revolt as he tugged hard on the bonds holding his arms up high.  His neck hurt where he tugged in terror against his chain and collar. What was this monster going to do to him?

The sixth stroke made Roger almost pass out with pain. He had visions of his flesh raw and bloody, and knew he could not take much more. Roger was snivelling, crying and groveling in a jumbled nasal rendering of happy birthday again, when Brian finally stopped.

“That was six of the best, Rog,” Brian announced.  “You don’t expect to go away from me without some sort of souvenir, do you?” Roger could hear the cold sneer in his voice.  “A little something to remember your Master by?  To remember your submission?”  
He was sobbing almost uncontrollably now – something that is very difficult to do when your mouth is stuffed full.  His nose was getting blocked and in desperation he just blew, not caring the mess he looked.

Brian let him carry on for another ten minutes, as the searing agony died to a slightly less fierce burning. Then he released Roger’s then limped arms and collar from the eyebolts, and untied the pole from his ankles.  
“Come, pet, on your feet.”  He helped Roger up with a consideration that was not matched by the expression in his eyes as he wiped the mess of tears and other outpourings from Roger’s angelic face. 

“There, that’s better,” he said with a smile. But it was a cold smile – one that sent another shiver to his already weakened body.  
Roger tried again, his ‘happy birthday’ interspersed with snuffles and whimpers.

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head with an expression of amused tolerance.  “You will be going nowhere, Rog. Not for quite a while, until I decide that you have atoned for your presumption that you can walk away without so much as a ‘by your leave’,” he caressed Roger’s wet cheek softly with one hand holding his arms together on his back with the other hand. “You forget your role in this relationship. You forget that there are certain fundamental things that require consultation. You do not walk away from me and expect me to accept it without some input into the decision. That input I am about to provide you with, tonight.”

Roger tried to struggle, but already weakened by Brian’s brutal spanking, he could only squirm weakly in Brian’s death grip. Brian gripped Roger by the shoulders and forced him over to a low vaulting horse. Again the tails on his wrist bonds were pulled over a beam above, and Roger found himself bent over the horse, helpless. With his body leaning on the black padded top, his ankles were lifted and Roger was slid so that he laid face down on the horse, his wrists still in the air above him. His ankles and knees were then bound tightly with more coils of white cotton sash cord, after which the tails attached to his ankle ropes were threaded through his wrist bonds. Roger found himself in a hogtie which suddenly became more acute as Brian hoisted his wrists higher towards the ceiling.

The sniveling sub then moaned as his back bent into a bow and his shoulders were again stressed with the angle of his arms. This position somehow angled the buttplug into an uncomfortable position and Roger whined in a futile plea for mercy.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, my dear?” Brian asked, in the tone a priest might use in a confessional box.  
“Mmnnn…” he moaned softly, nodding his head in misery.  
“Would you like that ball out of your mouth?”  
Roger nodded again. Unbelieving his luck, he felt Brian’s fingers undo the lock at the back of his neck and then the strap come undone. With a none-too-gentle movement, the lanky man popped the ball out of his mouth.  
“Oh Jesus, Brian – let me go – please!  Whatever I said, I didn’t mean-“

That was as far as Roger got before Brian grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. He gasped in surprise, his mouth opening just in time for Brian’s fingers to insert a leather-bound metal ring between Roger’s jaws, which was strapped in place. His mouth was held open, allowing him to make bizarre sounds of protest from his throat, none of which made much sense, but at least he made himself heard.

Of course that didn’t last long. Moments later a stopper of some sort of plastic plug was screwed into the ring, effectively silencing Roger in the same way that the ball had. This form of gag, however, with the rigid ring, was far more strained and uncomfortable for his jaws. But not content with this, Brian then tied a short rope to Roger’s collar which was in turn attached to his wrist bonds. For like a hundredth time, Roger moaned in despair, now unable to move any part of his body, so tautly was he strung out.  
“How long do you think you can manage that position?” Brian chillingly asked, his face inches from Roger’s. “Perhaps you’ll be repentant in the morning? Yes?”  
“Nnnnn! Nnnnn!” He whined again frustratingly, trying to shake his head.  
“But we need something to focus your mind on your transgressions, _n’est ce pas_? I think these nice little clamps on your nipples will do the job.”

Roger screwed his eyes shut as the jaws closed on his tender nipples. More nasal sounds escaped him as the biting pain seared through his oversensitive flesh. He tried to scream, after a fashion, but it really didn’t amount to much. The clamps were joined by a short length of chain, the mid-point of which was hung over the end of the horse. He shook his head as much as he was able to, making plaintive mewing noises. Tears flowed again, coursing down his cheeks while he lay there, trapped in a web of hopelessness as his tormentor turned and left the room, turning out the light and closing the door with a brutal finality.

 

*  

 

It was at that stage that Roger knew all hope had gone. His misery was complete, plunged into black despair in the darkness. His body was bent like a bow, every joint screaming for release – his neck, his back, shoulders, arms and legs. His nipples were on fire and his backside still burned from the caning. Roger lost himself in time and a morass of self-pity, subsiding into a distant world of suffering. Was this the sub-space that John had talked about? He tried to focus on things that would take him away from his misfortune. Sweat ran down his back and between his chest, in the closeness of the room, pooling on the leather of the padded top of the horse. 

Roger had lost track of time, not believing that he could be here all night. He was utterly at Brian’s mercy, unable to move or resist until this other human being decided to end his torture. He could not believe how wrong he had been about this man – how off-beam his character assessment of Brian had been. Gone was the sweet image of a shy, intelligent man that Roger fell into a few months ago. All that left was an unused mask that Brian had discarded to reveal the darkness within him.

There was now no doubt in Roger’s mind that he was in serious trouble and the fleeting thought crossed his mind that he might not survive the night. The idea sent shivers down his spine and left a horrid feeling in the pit of his stomach. Desperately Roger fought off the rising panic and confined the terrible thought to the dark depths of his mind where it belonged. No, Brian was not capable of such a thing – not murder. Maybe only serious deformity or mutilation, his cursed mind came back stubbornly.

The sweet, helpless Roger was lost in his own world when the lights came on again. Disoriented, he looked up at the figure now standing before him.  
“Are we prepared to submit?”  
“Urr,” Roger mewed weakly, not wishing to anger Brian further.  
“Good.” He untied the rope from Roger’s collar. He groaned as his neck was released from the tension. Next came the plug from the ring gag, leaving him gasping and uttering throaty noises of relief.

“Don’t get too used to that,” Brian said.  “I have something else for you, instead.”  That was when Roger realised the whole set-up his master had planned. The horse was exactly the right height for it, he found, as Brian unzipped his trousers and produced his already hard member in front of Roger’s face. He had no real chance to protest – not that he could. Happy birthday was impossible to change Brian’s mind at this point, it seemed. His huge cock fitted snugly through the ring gag and Brian forced himself deep into Roger’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat.   
Roger was no stranger to oral sex with Brian, but he had always had the option in the past – or at least Roger had maintained that illusion in his own mind, anyway. Now, here he was hogtied on a bench and forced to give this man a blowjob. There wasn’t a choice in this case, and Roger resigned himself to the inevitable.

Brian sure took his own sweet time to finish and tortured Roger at the same time. He kept hitting the back of Roger’s throat until he couldn’t breathe, and held it there long enough until Roger felt his chest burn with lack of oxygen, then pulled back again. Roger had to breathe quickly, for Brian almost in instant slammed his hardness again deep in his throat. Roger could feel Brian’s hand stroking the bulge that was now apparent in his throat. That was how deep he was inside Roger’s mouth.

The occasional movement placed more tension on Roger’s tied limbs and exacerbated the pain in his nipples, but again, there was nothing he could do to resist. Roger found himself so hard that it was painful for his cock was stuck on the top of the wooden horse.

His eyes were stinging with perspiration as a result of his concentrated efforts to please his captor and to keep the agony in his body at bay. Roger could not understand what Brian was doing when he finally pulled out without climaxing inside his mouth. Brian suddenly let go of his hair, allowing his head to slump forward. Roger was coughing and gasping at this point, not knowing what was coming next.

A blindfold was, in fact, coming next. Roger should have guessed it was the one little pleasure he had not experienced at that point. This one was a black silk scarf that wound around his head three times before it was knotted tightly and Roger was in darkness again.  
The relief when he undid the tails of his wrists and ankles was palpable. He was so exhausted from the hogtie he had endured that he could do nothing more than lie quivering on the horse. But releasing Roger from the bow had the unfortunate side effect of lowering his upper body squarely onto his chest with those terrible clamps on his nipples. Roger moaned and cried out – an act which only prompted the insertion of the plastic plug back in his ring gag. Roger’s jaw was really aching now – a fact with which he was unable to acquaint his captor, who was in any case busy untying his ankles.

For a moment – a very brief one – Roger almost thought his torment was at an end as Brian hauled him to his feet and the pain on his nipples came back again. He squealed with a series of gasping noises through his nose at the terrible pain. Of course it made no difference whatsoever, for Brian was wholly intent on what he was next going to do to poor Roger. He felt himself positioned on a spot, although in relation to what he could not bloody tell. Roger’s legs were parted and he underwent the familiar stretching that came with the spreader bar cuffed to his ankles. 

Then it was his arms again, up in the air, with his head going down. Up and up went his slim arms while his head was forced down. Brian paused momentarily to walk Roger forward a couple of tiny steps, to feel his head bump into a post he knew to be in the middle of the room. That’s when Roger saw his captor’s plan as Brian pulled his wrists in that last distance and bound them to the post. His arms were now vertically against the post upwards with his shoulders and head facing down to the concrete floor.  Another rope bound his elbows together and to the post while Roger begged in muted tones to be set free, promising he would never do anything Brian didn’t approve of.

Roger was now absolutely immobile again, his legs spread wide and the rest of his body held rigidly against the post, with his bottom about as vulnerable as it could possibly get. Roger was still conscious of the large butt plug in place and he was petrified of what might be next on Brian’s list of tortures.   
There was the sound of a riding crop or something like it, slashing through the air. ‘Jesus, no, Brian! Please!’ Roger moaned desperately, but his words came out only as a series of  “Nnnnm!” Roger screamed frustratingly through his gag.   
Thwack! A slash across the buttocks. Roger screamed again in his gag, shaking his head as much as he could and trying to hop from one foot to the other. Thwack again, on the base of the buttplug. The now hopping angel went wild with a continuous “Nnnnnnnnmmmm!” His eyes were streaming beneath the scarf and he was lost in a purgatory which appeared to have no end. Then there were hands groping over his doubled up body and fondling his nipples as the clamps still hung from them, which by now only had dull ache in it.

Brian suddenly pulled the plug off of Roger’s hole. His cheeks were fluttering open and close as the intruding wedge had been set free from his aching hole. Roger’s relief was a false one, however, as Brian’s lubed cock was replacing the plug inside Roger.

At that point, Brian drove himself between Roger’s legs and forcing him against the post as he pumped hard and fast, hitting Roger’s spot repeatedly. Roger, after enduring hours of torture with a hard on, could feel his climax building up quickly. So intense did he come that his cock convulsing thick, white rope of semen onto his stomach and the floor below him. His butt clamped hard around Brian’s cock, and he too climaxed inside Roger. His orgasm sent shudders through Roger; and then he was out, leaving trickles of cum running out from Roger’s hole. Through the red haze of pain and after pleasure, Roger was conscious of Brian trying to hold back the inevitable. He clearly wanted to make Roger suffer just a little bit more.

By doing so, Brian scooped his own cum that trickled out from his captive’s hole in his finger then swiped his hand up only to rub it back inside Roger. Brian held his finger there to prevent it from leaking out again while scooping the buttplug that was discarded on the floor and inserted it back inside Roger. The panting drummer moaned as his inside was still too sensitive from the overstimulation and the familiar intrusion that now wedged snugly inside his hole again.

Roger was left there, trembling in the darkness, stretched more than he could bear, until he heard a clink of chain. He wept further, dreading what Brian was no doubt about to do to him with these metal shackles.

He felt the chain wrapped around his waist and padlocked just below his navel. The loose end was then pulled none too gently between his legs and padlocked in the small of his back. A third padlock evidently somehow secured his buttplug with a chain connected to something unseen as his eyes were still blindfolded. Suddenly Roger felt his cock lifted none-too-gently and being clasped inside a cold steel that Roger in the end found out was a male chastity belt. This was an utter humiliation for Roger, as Brian fully made sure of. His arms were released at that point and Roger was allowed to stand up. He felt his wrists being undone. Was this the end?

“Stand still!” Brian’s voice hissed next to his ear. “You will not move until you hear the door shut. You will then hear it lock. You may then leave by the outside door. If you dare to knock on the inner door or to do anything other than leave directly, you will spend the rest of the night hanging inverted from the beam overhead while I whip your nipples and arsehole. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

Roger nodded, still sobbing uncontrollably.

“I am taking your clothes as a souvenir. Come looking for it and as I said, you will be hanging upside down from the roof with triple weights tied to your tits. Don’t go looking for the keys to the belt’s locks, either. They’ll go in the rubbish right after this. You can keep the belt, locks, chain and plug as your own souvenir from me, Rog. Now go home – I never want to see you again, you little slut!”

Brian was gone. The weeping blonde was left alone, still standing, legs apart, gagged and blindfolded, quivering like jelly as the emotional reaction set in. There came the sound of a slamming door and the key turned in the lock. Roger raised his arms slowly and worked the silk scarf off. His arms were stiff from the long period pulled behind him and his shoulder joints ached so badly. The room was in a total darkness; not a chink of light came under either of the doors, and Roger worked entirely by feelings.

He eased the nipple clips off very, very slowly, letting the blood gradually return to his nipples, but that didn’t stop him crying in pain. Tears were running freely now, unhindered by the thought of what lay ahead, and prompted by the fact that his torment was over. Roger undid the gag strap behind his head and pried the terrible ring out from between his jaws, again sobbing with relief and working his mouth to get some feeling of normality back into it. He had undone the ankle cuffs and freed himself from the awful spreader bar before the implications of his situation really dawned on him. 

Roger was naked, with a chastity belt and buttplug chained in place. Jesus. He felt his way along the outer wall to the side door and opened it. The night was warm and the perspiration slowly began to dry on his body. The almost-naked man paused for a moment in the doorway, letting the dim glow of the city night simmer into the dungeon.  Eventually his eyes became adjusted to the light and Roger could just make out the outlines of some of the furniture. Leaving the door open, he searched the room as best he could and found his shoulder bag with the car keys inside it, and his sandals. Roger looked around for anything he could use to cover his nudity, but there was nothing. Brian May had made very sure of that.

At that point he sat down in the doorway and wept again, so wretched did he feel. He had been betrayed, beaten, raped and humiliated. Even now, Brian’s legacy was still with him in the form of the buttplug and the restraining belt chained in place. Brian had not only screwed him in the arse, but also had arranged for an artificial device to do it instead, to leave Roger suffering and degraded. Life had reached an absolute worst for him, and Roger could not think straight.

Roger didn’t know how long he sat there wallowing in self-pity and misery, before he finally got it together sufficiently to consider the practicalities of his predicament. Roger knew he had to get to his car and had to get home. After he had done that, he could think about how to get the chain off. In the meantime, Roger had to drive across London to his house naked, such was the wrath of Brian May had upon this fragile, baby-faced sub.

It was, Roger guessed, nearly 1 AM.  His car was parked outside Brian’s place near a streetlight. He skulked behind his Audi under the carport, listening for any signs of anybody walking their dog or doing a late night jog, but the street was silent. The lights were out in Brian’s house, but Roger wondered if he was watching from a window.

Roger pulled out his keys and scuttled across the grass verge to his car, fumbling with the lock and then letting himself in. The interior light came on automatically, and despite all the times he had blessed such an innovation, this time Roger cursed it. Sitting down in the driver’s seat had shoved the buttplug deeper in a most weird fashion; and there seemed nothing he could do to ease the pleasant feeling of fullness it gave him. His cock got semi-hard and yet Brian had made sure that Roger could do nothing about it as the steel caging his cock had prevented him from touching himself.

He let his fingers briefly explore the connection between the chain and the plug, establishing that there was a small eyebolt in the plug through which a padlock connected to the chain.

The interior light went out. Roger reached into the back seat and found a small hand towel which he had kept for previous, less traumatic episodes, where again he had arrived hot and sweaty. He towelled himself down and draped the towel as best he could around his waist to cover his nudity. Roger then started the engine and drove away from the nightmarish place he had endured earlier. 

It was probably the longest drive of Roger’s life. His head was buzzing with a mad confusion of thoughts, while his naked body continued to shake such that he had to grip the steering wheel hard to keep his hands steady. The act of driving focused his mind sufficiently to push his experience into the background. Roger drove through the back streets as much as he could, avoiding traffic lights and any chance that he would have to stop beside a vehicle whose driver could look down on his nakedness. Fortunately, no such incident occurred, and Roger arrived home just half an hour later by the clock in the car.

His street near his house was notorious for its lack of parking, and frequently he had been obliged to walk a hundred metres or more from the nearest parking space. It was also devoid of trees and any other sort of cover that a naked man could utilise. Roger knew the only choice he had was to double-park for long enough to get inside and cover himself up.

He drove down the street slowly, passing his house and noting the lack of lights in the neighbouring buildings. There appeared to be nobody about when he returned and double-parked. Taking a deep breath, and again checking that nobody was around, the humiliated man slid out of the car, scampered across the footpath and up the steps to the front door, forgetting the porch light that he lit up earlier before he left had made it for the entire world to see him in his naked glory. For several long moments Roger panicked, scrabbling for his keys, dropping them, then finally getting the door open. Once inside, with the door closed behind him, his breath rasping in his ears. He struggled not to break down again. Sniffling and wiping his eyes, Roger pulled on a pair of loose pants and a T-shirt and returned to park his car further down the road.

Upon his return to the safety of his house, Roger, covered with sweat, blood and his own semen, stripped and stood for a long time in the shower, letting the hot water run over him. It was there that he finally broke down and cried again, sitting in the corner of the shower with his head against the tiles. Even here, in the security of his private refuge, his humiliation was unfinished, with Brian’s parting gift, including part of his semen, still lodged immovably inside him. Roger Taylor’s degradation was now complete.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and your continuous support! Tell me what you think about this chapter, folks ;) - V


	5. Stalker, You’re My Best friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving to Manchester, Roger thought that he had escaped from his D/s life. But did he?

** Welcome Darkness, My New World **

**Chapter 5 – Stalker, You’re My Best friend**

 

You don’t have to be Albert Einstein to conclude that the preceding events were what swayed Roger in his decision to move to Manchester. The thought of leaving Brian and the horrible memories of that night were just too appealing, all wrapped up in a new start with a permanent job.

But all that came later, of course. Before that happened, Roger had to wake up wondering where he was and why he felt so uncomfortable. Then the recollection came flooding back of his night at Brian’s, and the reason for the chain around his waist and between his legs.  There were more tears before Roger called work and told them he would be a little late. The lateness was of course the time taken to go to the local hardware store and buy a pair of bolt cutters of adequate capacity to rid himself of the chains that imprisoned little Roger.

Then there was the phone call to Manchester, the finalisation of arrangements, and six weeks later, Roger had relocated. It was another couple of months before he bought his new house. The job was working out well and he felt comfortable enough in his new hometown to decide to buy, rather than rent. The legacy from his parents was finally put to good use and at the age of 26, he became a mortgage-free house-owner.

Roger liked Manchester. It didn’t have the pretensions of London, nor the number of people, and the size was such that you could get out of the city easily – provided it wasn’t at rush hour. He bought a house not far from his workplace. The house was fifteen years old, and like many houses in Truro, it possessed an enormous balcony designed for indoor-outdoor living. It was here Roger hung a hammock and installed a barbecue, and the area became the focal point for his relaxation. There was enough of a garden for him to take an interest in – some palms and a jacaranda tree and a heap of giant ginger plants standing twice as tall as he did – but nothing that required too much maintenance. In amongst all this was a small swimming pool that he knew he would live in over the long summer months.

Roger loved the Manchester weather too, the end of which he experienced when he arrived. The days were crisp, cool and dry – with just enough chill to warrant a jumper on his early morning walks to the park where Roger did several circuits before returning home to enjoy a pack of cig by his balcony. This, the ex submissive decided, was where he wanted to be.

The job proved pretty typical, but the practice was thriving and the people were nice. Roger began to slip into a routine that consciously avoided social contacts, for he knew it was going to take a long time before he could trust people again. B & D was definitely out, he decided. Roger still contacted John on a regular basis, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain what had happened to him in London. John knew that Roger had moved to Manchester, but despite his gentle questions, Roger was not prepared to start a relationship nor to meet him. He wanted to do things in his own time and bless Deacy’s heart, he seemed to be understanding of this. The blonde drummer spoke to him a couple of times on the phone, but by and large they kept in touch, letting each other know the small inconsequential things they did as part of their daily lives.

John knew something had happened, although Roger never gave him details, wishing instead to push the memory of that terrible night as far as possible into that part of his mind where things were not readily accessible. John at least had enough sense not to pursue that line once he cottoned on that Roger had undergone somewhat of a lifestyle change. Sometimes their calls would touch on the B & D scene but Roger was still going through a period of confusion in his feelings towards other men in general, never mind whether he wanted some sort of bondage relationship with one of them in particular. Roger still found it hard to accept that he had misread Brian so badly, and that beneath his charming exterior was someone – or something – that he had missed totally, and that this person had done the appalling things to Roger against his wishes. The possibility of making some sort of complaint to the police never entered his mind. Even if he could somehow prove that the bondage that he had willingly entered into – that he had actually locked on himself – had all been a mistake, Roger doubted that there was any chance of proving his objection to what had subsequently happened. And the thought of having the details painted across the London tabloids was more horrific than what he had actually experienced and now wanted to forget.  No, in this case, Roger was pragmatic enough to recognise that this was a time when principles took a back seat to getting on with life.

And life did go on. The opportunity arose to attend an international conference in America which he jumped at, even though it meant paying a large chunk of the airfare himself. Amongst the subjects for discussions were some around which he had based his thesis at University, and Roger began to gear himself up for this exciting turn of events, even though it was still two months away.   
That was when he got his first little surprise.

 

*   *   *

 

The first letter he got after he’d moved to Manchester was an anonymous one. It was like one that you can subscribe through monthly magazine, except that the content was a departure from the ordinary birthday or Christmas cards. It was unsigned and contained no message. The letter showed a picture of a naked man, his back to the observer, viewed through an arched and barred window that looked vaguely Spanish or Middle Eastern. The man had ash blonde hair and although he was slightly turned towards the window, his face and cock were not visible through the bars. His arms were behind him, and his wrists might have been tied, were they visible beneath a few sprays of pink climbing roses intertwine with the bars.

It was quite an arty – not to say suggestive – card, and it unsettled Roger with its overtones of captivity, not to mention the fact that there was no indication who it was from or what its purpose was. He was going to throw it away, but decided not to, just because he rather liked it.

Two days later another letter arrived. This one looked like an ordinary mail of the junky spam type that sometimes find their way through his letterbox.  
**_From:_** _Anonymous sender_  
**Subject:** Submissive wanted  
Need some direction in your life? Need some obedience training? Do you like to struggle futilely against an overwhelming urge, inescapable desires and tightly confining ropes?  
You know you want to give in. You know you want to feel that cord on your wrists and ankles, those chains about your body, that inability to articulate. Respond and submit yourself now.

Roger stared at the suspicious paper in front of him, trying to work out where it had come from. It looked like the typical spam mailing thing that clutters up the lines, advertising teen sex and hot guys. But this was so specific it unsettled him. Who had sent this and why? Roger had not really thought about this side of his life for some time. He was still endeavouring to put his London experience behind him, and what with the new job, the new house, moving and all manner of other lifestyle changes, B & D had receded into the background. He had not heard from John for a month or so, and even his mails had slipped into more everyday conversations about daily events. Now the whole thing suddenly came roaring back, and the feel of ropes binding his ankles and wrists became vividly real again.

And yes, the slim drummer confess, it did send a little tingle up his spine when he thought of it outside the context of that last fateful night in Brian’s dungeon. But was this a coincidence? How could he find out if this was spam mail? Roger didn’t know. He threw it away, making the assumption that it was junk and that making it gone out of his sight would be the end of it.

One week later, Roger just came back home and checked his mail again. It was a warm balmy evening and the doors to the balcony were open, letting a gentle breeze take the edge off the start of the summer humidity. It was almost Autumn and the temperature had reached the balmy high twenties.

There was another article from the anonymous sender.  
This time there was another photo. It showed a man kneeling on a white sheepskin. He was in his twenties, blonde and gorgeous with a figure most men would die for – Tall slim figure and some abs to go with them. He was naked and bound with black leather straps in a kind of harness that wrapped around his body, pinioning his arms. His wrists were behind him, presumably strapped in the same manner. His legs were secured with more straps at the ankles and above the knees. A complex head harness of black straps secured a bright red rubber ball in his mouth. A tiny ribbon of saliva was hanging from one corner of his mouth as he looked up at someone out of the picture. His eyes were blue and wide, resembling those of Roger’s – an expression not of fear, but of…worship? Longing? Anticipation? Roger couldn’t tell, but he confess that the photo stirred his sleeping little eel.

The photo was of high quality, and as Roger scrolled it down, it showed every detail of the bound man. The photo was probably twice the size of his screen and he could see a tiny mole on the otherwise unblemished skin. Then he saw the message.  
“ _Wouldn’t you like to try this, Roger?_ ”

Roger jumped and dropped the letter. He nearly freaked out at that point. This was no spam mail. Somebody had got his address and was targeting him.

The now-startled man looked up, distracted by the drapes rustling in the night wind. He walked across and closed the French doors, looking out on the street as he did so. He suddenly felt terribly vulnerable, as though he had seen someone peering in at his window. His private place of refuge was all at once not so private and not so safe.

There was only one person he could think of who might be doing this, and that was John. Since leaving London, he had a different address and landline. His foray into Shackled Magazine had ended and he had left his London life behind; which only left John who knew his current address and who understood his secret B & D desires. Roger didn’t know what to do – whether to challenge John outright or to reply his letter and put it back in his mailbox and see whether someone was going to take the letter from his mailbox. Roger did not like confrontations and opted for the latter. He wanted to be sure before he challenged John, and didn’t know how to go about that. His message was short and to the point, telling this mysterious recipient that he was not interested at all. Roger was determined to instantly throw away any anonymous letters in the future. If there were any further developments, the police would be called.

For three days nothing happened. Roger went about his business, his early morning runs, or shopping at the supermarket as though nothing had happened. But he was uneasy, still. It was like unresolved business, when something needs to be done but it is beyond your power to take the action necessary. It was like walking a snow-clad valley, wondering if there was an avalanche lurking on the mountain above you, waiting for the trigger that would send it hurtling down.

Then came another mail, to which he gave the throwing away treatment. Further mails followed for nearly a week, one per day, all of which got discarded. He heard nothing from John during this period, and did not contact him. Roger was coping - albeit in a frustrated and unnerved manner, until one day, there was an unnamed package in his box.

He froze in shock, looking around for someone who might have left it, but there was no other person in view. Gingerly, as though it might contain a bomb, he picked up the envelope. He looked around again, then tore it open. It was a VHS tape with no note to give any details what kind of video was inside that tape. It sent a shiver down his spine.

The video was in high quality and in fine detail. The subject was a man in a dungeon, and it looked like a real dungeon, not one of your phoney brick veneer jobs. These stone walls were old and weathered. The place looked like it was open to the sky somehow, judging from the light and the moss growing in cracks and crevices in the stonework.  The camera panned briefly and Roger saw that the small man was imprisoned within the ruins of what must have been an old castle. Part of the walls had been destroyed, but the majority of the four walls of the room still stood, albeit with no roof.

The first shot was from outside, zooming in through the rusting bars of a heavy vertical grille that served as a window. Beyond, in the stone prison, was the man. Roger recognised him as the one in the photo that had previously been sent. He watched, fascinated by this blonde man’s predicament and unable to bring himself to turn off the clip. 

He was naked, save for what must have been some very expensive hardware from a metal fabricator, and this was one man who was not going to get loose in a hurry. The shot stopped at this point and began again inside the cell and much closer to the prisoner, doing a slow shot beginning at his feet and panning upwards.

The man in the clip was barefoot with his ankles secured in stainless steel cuffs bolted shut. Between his legs was a steel pole about 5 centimetres in diameter obviously cast in concrete in the ground. Roger could see little more than this at first, in the close-up of his feet, except that each ankle fetter was attached by a very short chain – only a few links – horizontally to the pole. There were no locks to be seen. The cuffs appeared to be permanently fixed to the chains, which were in turn attached to the pole. The only way of release was to unbolt the cuffs themselves, it appeared.

The camera moved upward, following the pole. Roger noticed the man was on tiptoes momentarily, as though stretched for a few seconds, then lowered. He saw the reason for this as the pole merged into a huge stainless steel dildo that disappeared into his arse, the base of it appearing and vanishing as he raised and lowered himself on his toes. The plot was becoming clearer, Roger thought.

Around his waist was a stainless steel band, about as wide as his hand. At each side, a wrist was secured to the band by a single link attaching a steel manacle to a U-shaped lug on the steel belt. His wrist cuffs, like those on his ankles, and the belt itself, were bolted in place, and looked to fit very snugly. His hands, with their black-painted nails, were clenching and unclenching, fluttering about trying to go somewhere, but their range of movement was minimal in their steel cuffs. Clearly the restraints had been made to deliberately allow some movement, whereas they could have been made much more rigid. Perhaps this was simply a mind game, allowing just that smidgen of freedom…

Continuing upward he saw that his nipples had been clamped by steel bands, one vertically about each base. These had the effect of making them bulge like small balloons and must have been very uncomfortable. These bands were linked between his chest and were further held in place by another steel band about his body, like some sort of bizarre bra.

Predictably, the clamps were joined by a short length of delicate small-linked chain, which was centrally linked to another chain, which disappeared upwards out of the picture. The camera continued in the same direction, leading up to the gag the prisoner wore. It was not unlike a leather head harness except that again it was all in stainless steel, with a horizontal band around at forehead level, and another running from the back of the neck over the top of the mass of blonde hair, down to the nose, where it divided and crossed each cheek to meet the mouth-cover. There was nothing to be seen of what packing might be filling the poor creature’s mouth, for the whole of his lower face was concealed beneath a steel mask which extended below his chin to cover his entire lower jaw. This mask was secured with a further band behind his neck.  
On the front of the mask, just where the mouth would normally be, was another U-lug, to which was locked a fine chain, again disappearing upwards. The submissive’s head was tilted upwards, looking quite strained, and made more so as he lowered himself with each movement of his feet.

The camera finished the shot, tilting upwards to an old timber beam high above. It looked like a remnant of an upper floor long since decayed. Hanging from it was a small pulley, over which the chain from the gag passed, before descending to attach to the nipple clamps. The man could ease the pressure on his neck and nipples as he stood on tiptoes, but to get relief for his feet he was obliged to lower himself to the full penetration of the dildo in his arse, which at the same time pulled on his face mask and nipples. No doubt at the same time it gave him nice feelings in his cock, as well, Roger thought.

The captive was making small moaning noises as he raised and lowered himself.  Those stunning blue eyes that had been so powerful in the previous photo were closed, and he was clearly lost in some other place. Sub-space, Roger wondered? Raising, lowering, raising lowering, his pace quickening slightly and his breathing doing likewise. The picture turned fuzzy and faded as the clip came to an end. Before it went completely blank, however, there was just one line:

_You know you want this, don’t you, Rog._

Roger sat there for a long while, looking at the message. Then, as though it had a life of its own, his hand double clicked on the remote control again and he saw the impaled prisoner straining on the pole, his cock strained hard. Roger realised his own member had hardened at the thought of what he must have been feeling and that realisation jerked him back to the present. Whatever else the master thought about the artistic merits of the video and the predicament of the prisoner, the fact remained that Roger was being…stalked by someone. But if this was going on now, what was the next step? His stalker would no doubt realised that Roger had opened this package and there was nothing he could do to alter that.

Roger put the video in his safe at home. He didn’t know why. There was just something about that video that aroused him. He went to bed that night with his mind filled with all manner of images and thoughts - excitement, fear, uncertainty, trepidation – all mixed up and interfering with each other. He ended up stroking his cock through his pyjamas fabric and had an embarrassing wank thinking about the video he saw earlier.

 

 *    *    *

 

The memory of the previous night was still with Roger as he did his run to the park. It was a small area of land, edged by a pathway alongside the river. In one corner there were some swings and a seesaw, and at a quarter to six on most mornings the place was deserted.

Like most people, he had a routine in the morning. It began with a gentle jog to the park where he would do his stretches on a bench, then he would take the river path on a circuitous route back to his house. It was a pleasant start to the day, waking him up gently and allowing his mind to gradually come to grips with the world. His neighbourhood was always peaceful and it set Roger in the mood for his morning coffee and cigarette on his balcony.

This particular morning, the tousled-blonde-haired Roger was still overcoming the after-effects of the video clip. Roger resolved that he would be more careful about opening package in the future. With this decision made, he decided to put last night behind him. Roger was not going to let a few weird letters spoil his life.

There was a light dampness on the grass, the legacy of a brief overnight shower. Roger made a slow circuit of the park and headed for the bench to do his stretches.   
And once again, a large buff-coloured envelope was on the seat with his name typed on a sticky label when he opened his mailbox. The package was heavy, and something clinked inside. Inside was a pair of handcuffs, together with the keys.  A single piece of card contained the words:  
_Try them on, Rog – they’re your size._

Hurriedly, almost guiltily, Roger stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his track pants, his mind reeling from the implications of this discovery. His exercises forgotten, he headed for the river path and made his way home almost unaware of his surroundings.   
The situation had taken a whole new turn. Somebody was watching him. Somebody somehow had found out where he lived. They knew his routine. They must have been there, in the park, that morning, ahead of him, for the envelope was only slightly damp on the back. It had not been rained on. They must have known Roger came to the park every morning, which meant they knew his routine and no doubt his address. Roger shivered and looked over his shoulder along the path, but there was nobody there. He was starting to get the feeling he was being watched.

Opening two packages had no doubt sent the notification to the sender that Roger Taylor was looking at the video, and was obviously getting in the mood for the next stage of the plan, which he had just encountered. The scary part was not just that this person knew his routine and address, but that some sort of a ‘plan’ existed. Roger had the unnerving feeling that this was not just the random work of a crank but the next step in a calculated scheme designed to… what? Where was this leading? That was the terrifying thought. He was heading into some sort of spiders web that he could see no obvious purpose behind.

Roger wondered if this was one of the colleagues where he worked. In the biology business he met a lot of people and in the course of treatment they inevitably talked. Over a series of visits, he would get to know a little about them, and they a little about Roger. In the latter case he tried to keep his life relatively private, but Roger had always found that hard. He might talk about his house, or the up-coming conference in America. 

Christmas was almost there in a few months and holidays were always a good topic for discussion. Not that he was having any this year. Roger was the newbie in the fields of research, and not having any commitments like relatives or close friends, he had volunteered to be on call for new researches that interest him, so he could move wherever he wanted. Also, there was never any shortage of people doing silly things over the holiday break. And in any case, what with his three-week study break to America in early January, he could not really afford time off over Christmas.

So was this somebody he had attended, someone to whom he had talked just a bit too much? Mentally he flipped through the list of prospects, but identified nobody out of the ordinary. And in any case, how could they possibly know about his fascination with B & D? That was certainly something Roger hadn’t unloaded in a curtained cubicle with the rest of his colleagues in earshot.

His deliberations kept bringing him back to John. He was the only one who knew of Roger’s predilection, although he did not know his address now, for they only communicated via the phone, although that would have been easy enough to get round.  He resolved to raise the matter with him that night.

Roger’s mind was not on his work that day. His colleagues commented that he seemed preoccupied. He made up some lame excuses.

The incident in the park had suddenly made him very paranoid. Everywhere he went, Roger was looking for hidden meanings in what people said or the way they looked at him. He drove home that evening looking in his rear view mirror for anyone following him, and he even cruised round the block checking parked cars for suspicious characters. To say he was nervous would have been a pretty big understatement.

Entering the house now gave Roger the creeps, not because he didn’t feel at home, but because he felt vulnerable in his own home. He checked all the locks on the doors and windows, even looking under the beds. That was how badly it had got to him. Ordinarily Roger liked living by himself. Now he wished he had a flatmate or someone to share the load. Yes, he was sure he would get a lot of takers in his present situation, he thought. They’d be queuing up to share a house with the target of a stalker – not.

That evening Roger sat down at his desk. The buff envelope was on top where he had left it on his return that morning. He pulled out the cuffs and examined them, together with the piece of card. Both the envelope and card were obviously the products of a computer printer, and he would never learn anything that way. The handcuffs looked like a cheap pair, not that he was any expert. The wrist pieces were joined by a single link of chain which did not look especially strong and was not even fully welded. Roger looked closely at it and suspected that it had been prised apart and possibly further links removed, to make the two manacles closer together. 

The curious biologist closed the catches and examined how they worked. Brian had used them on him a couple of times but he had never had the chance to look at them close up. Next to each keyhole was a tiny lever that stopped the ratchet closing too tightly, he discovered. He locked and unlocked them several times but didn’t try them on. Something about them both excited and frightened him.

Roger called John, wanted to explain what was happening and ask if he knew anything about it. Suffice to say, John was all concern. He flatly denied anything to do with any part of the whole business and asked if there was anything he could do to help and asked all sorts of questions. Did Roger want to meet this person somewhere? Had he considered going to the police? Did he want to talk about it to a friendly face?

Maybe he did – a problem shared and all that. But he had not met John as yet, and he wasn’t ready for another relationship, especially a few weeks before his departure across the pond. One issue at a time was enough for him. Roger did not want his head racing with further assessments of people and whether they were right for him and where was it all going to lead… No, he’d get through this by himself.

Satisfied with this line, he compromised with John and said he would call him each night, just to keep him informed of any developments, in case emergency arose. With that resolution, he checked the doors and windows again and went to bed, but did not sleep well.

 

*  

Nothing happened for the next three nights, then the mails started again, but again and again Roger threw them away without opening them. It was now Thursday. He had found the handcuffs on the previous Monday morning, and had not dared go to the park since then, for fear that there might be something else for him to find, or perhaps somebody in person waiting for him. On the Thursday morning, he contented himself by having his cig on the balcony as the sun came up.  It was relaxing and he felt content in absorbing himself in at least this part of his routine. John urged Roger to go to the police, but there was no way he could face the embarrassment and judgment that would accompany such a move. He was starting to feel the problem would die a death if he could only ignore it.

Friday was the last workday before  his office officially shut for the weekend, although he would still be doing some admin the next morning. It was a long day, but brightened by a few drinks after work. His special weekend this year was going to centre around some good videos, the pool, and preparing for the trip to Seattle, as the flight would depart next week.

It was with these visions in his head that he stopped at the video store and picked out three movies that would hold his interest. Roger drove home and collected his mail from the box as usual. There were the usual bills and a small package about the size of a compact disc. It was wrapped in shiny paper, with his name on the front, and again it had been hand delivered. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. A part of his mind told him irrelevantly that although Roger had been in his house nearly six months, he had never had anybody come to visit him. He knew this wasn’t the beginning of a new friendship.

Once more he found himself looking around. The sun had set and now it was dark and frightening. The bushes and trees in his front garden took on looming and ominous shapes. A flying fox screeched in a nearby mango tree, making Roger jump as he hurried up the front steps, swearing softly under his breath, as if such profanities would give him courage.

Roger slammed the door behind him, his heart pounding. He knew the present was another ‘gift’ from his ‘admirer’, and he could not shake off the conviction that he was being watched as he had collected his mail. Once again he did a search of the house and checked all the doors and windows. Everything was as he had left it. Roger opened the French doors to the balcony and went outside, leaving all the lights off. He let his eyes get used to the darkness and peered out at the street. There were some cars parked on the road, but he recognised them as being regulars. The streetlights did their job reasonably well, and all appeared silent and normal. The bloody fox screeched again, making goose bumps pop up on his arms. Roger returned inside, locking the doors behind him.

Roger did not open the wrapped present until late that evening. It had been prepared neatly and he tore open the shiny paper with a deep feeling of foreboding. This gift reminded him of the parting ones he received from his colleagues in London when he was about to move to Manchester. Roger perhaps should have seen it coming. It was clearly variations on a theme, and this nipple clips were the next stage in this person’s bid to lure him into subservience, it seemed.

They were small devices, about the size of the top joint of his thumb, and were joined by a short section of chromed chain. They opened to reveal tiny serrations around the edges with a pink insert inside that obviously took some of the pressure off the teeth by providing a greater area to spread the pressure of the jaws. Roger tested them experimentally on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. They did not seem too bad. He had worn clips at Brian’s place, of course, and the recollection made him shudder, but these were a different type, and he was sure it was in fact the association with Brian that was the real problem. Roger wondered how these would feel and could not resist unbuttoning his shirt and discarded it on the floor. He didn’t know whether it was the cold air, but with the very thought of those clips he found his nipples and his cock hardening with an unexpected pleasurable feeling of anticipation. Gently he released the clips on to the ends of the nipples, swallowing as much of them as he could to spread the pressure. He closed his eyes with as the jaws gripped his flesh. It was not as severe as he expected, and sent a tingling sensation throughout his body. 

Roger wondered how long he could stand the dull pain that began to resonate from the buds trapped in the pincers. He picked up the handcuffs and keys and on impulse tossed the keys into the spare bedroom, not looking at where they fell. Pulling the maroon silk scarf from around his neck he bound it around his head, covering his eyes, then clicked the handcuffs over his wrists behind his back. The racketing sound carried a finality that at once thrilled and frightened him. Roger was now trapped in his spontaneous improvisation until he could find those keys… He was now a kidnap victim, desperate to escape. The thought made his cock painfully hard and he could do nothing to relieve himself. Roger could hardly believe himself.

The situation was at once exciting and scary. In the darkness he became disoriented and confused until he had bumped into the dining table and worked out where things were. Thus more at ease, the chained blonde found himself distracted by the intense feeling in his crotch and searched about for something to press against and satisfy himself.  Surprisingly, however, there was nothing really at the right height that he could gain purchase on. 

Roger worked his way along the wall until he found the door of the spare room and tried rubbing himself against the doorframe. He couldn’t believe how excited he had become; and the realisation of what he was doing and how he was behaving made him blush.  The idea of the doorframe was not a good one, however, for his thrusting like a cat in heat against the frame only pressed on the chain between the clips as well, giving him decidedly more pain than pleasure.

Leaving that preoccupation, he entered the spare room. Only then did he realise that his quest for release might not be so easy. Roger was not sure if the keys had landed on the bed or the carpet. He tried the double bed first, shuffling across to where he thought it to be, only to find it somewhat nearer that he anticipated, as he bumped his shins and lurched forward, unable to cushion his fall. The poor boy landed on his front, crying out as his weight landed on the nipple clips. Piercing pain shot through his nipples, and suddenly his little pretend game was not so sensuous. His nipples were now starting to throb as he squirmed on to his side and managed to sit up. The cuffs had somehow ratcheted tighter in the fall and they now hurt his wrists, adding to his uncomfortable feeling that he might have made a serious mistake. Roger tried to reach around and up to the blindfold, but could get nowhere near. He tried for the clips, but the cuffs had tightened too much and hurt as he tried to stretch his fingers towards where he knew the nipple clamp’s jaws were firmly clamped on his right nipple. 

With a rising sense of panic he felt around on the bedspread, trying to stay calm and carry out a methodical search. Then he heard it – the reassuring clink of keys. Except that the sound was that of keys falling, and he knew they had fallen down behind the bed head, against the wall. His heart sank. The bed was too heavy to shift with his wrists cuffed painfully behind him. Roger’s only option was to slide under the bed to retrieve the keys – and he knew there was not much room under there.

He eased himself into a sitting position on the carpet and managed to slide his legs under the bed. Roger touched the keys but could not extract them with his feet. He swore with frustration, not sure how to tackle the problem. In the end he could see no choice but to roll on to his stomach and worm his way under the bed. It was not a move he looked forward to, and he was right. As the fire shot through his nipples he cursed himself for his stupidity. The pain was intense and he felt the tears start to flow. He was promising himself he would never do anything like this again as he squirmed and wriggled under the bed, feeling the friction of the carpet on his chest and the pull on the clips as his full weight dragged on them. It seemed an interminable time before he felt the cold metal of the keys touch his right nipple and then managed to work his way to a point where he could grab the keys with his fingers. 

Roger thought the hard part was over, but in the cramped confines under the bed he could not get the key in the lock. Sniffling with relief, but still with a sinking feeling that this could be more serious than he realised, he worked his way out the other side of the bed, biting his lip with the pain from the clips. Sobbing, he finally sat up to take the weight off his nipples, then got to his feet. 

Roger had not thought much about how the cuffs went on, nor which side the keyhole was on and which way it was oriented. Gentle exploring revealed that the keyholes were both on the side away from his fingers. Desperately he twisted his wrists and fiddled with the keys after remembering to slide the ‘stop’ lever to the position he thought was ‘off’. It took maybe five minutes of increasingly desperate manoeuvring before he finally got the key into one of the holes, then managed to turn it after several fraught attempts. The ratchet released and his wrist was free. He wept more, but this time with relief. All thought of sexual excitement had long gone as he removed the other cuff then gently eased the clips off his poor suffering nipples, moaning through gritted teeth as he did so and the blood returned to them. Roger knew at that point that he had learned his lesson.  He wondered if the person who had left the clips and the handcuffs could have had any idea of what he would do with them…

*   *   *

It was just starting to get dark when Roger awoke after watching the movies he bought. For a moment he was disoriented, before slowly getting his senses together. For some reason he had the feeling that something unusual had woken him. He listened, but the house was silent, save for the gentle swish of the overhead fan stirring the air. Roger could not dispel the sensation that something was not right and he went to the front door. Opening it, he saw at once why his nerve ends had been aroused. On the floor of the porch was another nameless gift, wrapped identically to the last one.

He snatched it up, casting a quick glance around. The neighbourhood was quiet save for the shouts of some kids with their new bikes. He closed the door quickly and leant against it, breathing heavily. Whoever this was, he had been outside his front door while Roger slept, and the thought frightened the hell out of him. This was starting to get decidedly scary.

He looked down at what was obviously a shallow box the size of a chocolate box, wrapped in the same shiny paper as the last present. He shook it hesitantly but there was no clue as to what it contained. Not wanting to prolong the suspense, he tore the paper away and opened the plain box. Inside was a sealed envelope, on top of which was a black leather collar.  
Roger was momentarily stunned. He didn’t know what he had expected, but a collar was not on his list. Somehow the symbolism of it came like a blow, particularly in light of the way he had always worn one at Brian’s place. He had explained what it meant to both a Dom and a Sub, and how important it was as a symbol of the relationship.

This collar was wide and of patent leather with double pins in the buckle. Just back from the buckle was a U-shaped chrome lug over which the loose end could fit like a hasp and staple to be locked in place with a padlock. It was beautifully made, Roger had to admit. He slumped on the couch and ripped open the envelope.

The message was typed in a large bold gothic font. It read:

  
**I, Roger Meddows Taylor, of my own will and accord do hereby promise and swear that I present myself here uninfluenced by any mercenary or unworthy motives, to be decorated by my Master with a training collar to be worn around my neck.**  
**I likewise pledge that I am willing to follow my Master’s instructions.**  
**I do this without fear or force, and will steadily persevere through the training as long as W/we both feel it's the correct thing for the two of U/us.**  
**I, Roger Meddows Taylor, will kneel in Your presence his Master and freely and willingly and offer my neck for You to place around it, Your symbol in the form of a training collar.**  
**I promise to always meet You at the door with a hug and a kiss, and then I will wait silently till You are seated before I will fetch his collar and kneel beside You in order for You to place it around my neck.**  
**I promise to act as a true and lawful sub.**  
**I promise to obey Your instructions so long as they will not cause injury to myself or others.**  
**I promise to always respect You and to respect those You respect.**  
**I promise that I will not do anything willingly that may contravene Your instructions.**  
**I promise that You will always be the first to hear of my thoughts and aspirations concerning all things connected with this relationship.”**

It was followed by a single, too-familiar line:  
_“You know this is what you want, Roger.”_

Roger’s hands started to shake. He stood up and paced the length of the room several times.  This person was out to have me become his submissive. He assumed it was a ‘he’ – somehow the concept of a Dom doing this to me did not ring true. Maybe John was right – maybe it was time to ring the police and get them involved. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it, to expose himself to all the questions, the insinuations, the lewd innuendoes and public judgements of gay relationship that would no doubt come with any investigation. There was a reason behind these veiled threats which he couldn’t hide.

And yet were they really threats? Brian – for all his cruelty in finally dismissing him – and John, had explained to Roger the philosophy behind the true D/s relationship. This was the one that went beyond the D/s scene only, that went beyond mere sexual pleasure or the desire for erotic or masochistic pain, into the psychological realms of total submission. This was what was called a power exchange – a 24-hour a day, seven days a week total commitment to the lifestyle. 

It was not something Roger had ever sought. For all his enjoyment of the submissive role, he had a life to lead, and this did not include devoting himself twenty-four hours a day to a Dom. He was too much a realist to think such a thing would ever work for him, nor did he desire it. Roger valued his freedom once the scene had finished; which was, of course, not to say that he didn’t fully suffer on his trips off into sub-space and the fantasies that transpired in his head in the process. Brian had shown him how these could be negotiated and the needs of each party could be identified on a checklist and exchanged, with a view to making the encounter more rewarding.

But this was not what was happening here. This was something far more sinister. Call it stalking, call it hounding, hunting, shadowing, whatever. Roger was being watched and followed and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

 

*   *   *

 

The next few days were nerve-wracking. The letters stopped as suddenly as they began and things went quiet. In some ways this was more unnerving. It was like not knowing what was going to happen next when you were standing, bound and blindfolded, unable to see what your captor intended for you. Roger found himself more on edge, every sound in the house after dark making me jump. He told John what had happened. John still thought Roger should get the police involved, but he resisted that approach. He said he had decided to go on a trip with his colleagues, and wished him luck on his trip to the States. And of course this could not come around fast enough. Roger worked hard days and nights, this helping to distract his mind from his trip.  He shopped for a few things he would need on his trip and for the hundredth time checked his tickets and passport and repacked his bags.

Weekends came and went. Roger had to confess he slept through it. He couldn’t really be bothered – an approach he viewed ruefully as a sign of impending old age. Then it was only one sleep to go, and the excitement began to grow. It was some time since he had travelled overseas, and he was due a good holiday starting tomorrow. A few days in Los Angeles and then on to Seattle. This was going to be fun.

That was the night of his capture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave your thoughts and kudos below ;)


	6. Welcome to His Humble Abode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger finally found out who his kidnapper was.

**Welcome Darkness, My New Friend**

**Chapter 6 - Welcome to His Humble Abode**

 

_**Present Day** _

That was the point at which Roger’s captivity began – an unknown period bound on the bed. Roger can’t adequately describe the welter of thoughts running riot in his head at that time. His world had been turned upside down in the space of an hour. He was due to fly to America. This thought kept intruding, totally illogically, amongst the others. It didn’t seem to matter that Roger had been taken prisoner and lay bound and helpless for an unknown purpose, with possibly his life in the balance, but his stupid brain kept reminding him of what was going to be a missed flight.

After a short while, Roger’s arms began to ache with the strain of being pulled back and pinioned rigidly. His shoulders hurt with the tension in his arms, and the circulation began to make his hands and feet tingle. He squirmed around but this only seemed to make matters worse, putting more pressure on his bound limbs. At one stage he developed a snuffle, he guessed from the attempts at tears that had welled uncontrollably behind the tape still binding his head. Roger had panicked momentarily until he decided to blow his nose as best as he could. The bound drummer was past caring about any mess he made. He had a headache from the tightness of the tape wrapped around his head and moreover, he was alone, miserable and frightened.

‘Who is this person?’ His voice sounded English – possibly a Northern English accent, but not quite. There was something in the inflection that suggested a phoney accent. What did he want with me? How long was he going to keep me? Was this for money or something more sinister?’ All sorts of thoughts were running inside Roger’s head.

There could be no money involved, he decided. Roger had no relatives who would pay any ransom, and any money he had possessed as a result of his parents had gone on the house. He was not a target for wealth, he decided; which only left murder or maybe some other perverted motives.

The poor blonde felt himself trembling and his breath came in stuttering little pants as the shock of what had happened slowly sank home. Roger realised with a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that nobody would come looking for him for maybe three weeks because of the trip. He was supposed to have been away from work for at least that time. He presumed the airlines and the conference organisers would just put him down as a no-show. Roger had done all the organising from home, so any attempts to contact him would be met with an unanswered phone.

Alarm bells were starting to go off in a big way, at the same time as the coincidence of the whole thing was frantically banging on his reasoning brain cells, shouting that there was more to this than met the eye, and metaphorically waving something that he could not quite grasp. What was he missing here? Roger struggled to think straight, but the pain of his bonds made it hard to concentrate as the circulation slowly dwindled in his arms and his muscles protested.

It was warm in the room and his attempts to flop from resting on his right side to his left side left him sweating under the tape. Roger could feel the perspiration soaking into the satin of his nightshirt and trickling in little rivulets down his neck. He felt his mind start to wander and things began to go a bit muzzy. He knew he was not concentrating and was missing something important…

Despite the stringency of his position he must have dozed.

*  *  *

 _HE_ came back into the room. Roger jerked back to the present at the sound of his captor’s voice. It was different than before, not as deep, with Northern accent a strong nasal sound. In that moment, Roger instantly knew his captor.

It was the voice of the man that he spoke to on the phone all this time. John Deacon.

“How are you feeling, Roger?” John sounded casual and matter of fact, like a doctor visiting a patient. Roger squirmed and mewed as much as he could beneath the layers of tape, feelings of shock and betrayal were occupying his mind. Suddenly a whole clump of the jigsaw fell in place. John was the only one in whom he had confided his submissive tendency, and of course he had helped him with Brian. The timing of his abduction was obviously no coincidence, for John knew of his intending trip. That realisation scared Roger again. He knew that John was aware of the three clear weeks that he had before anybody started asking questions. His thoughts went racing in all directions at a thousand miles an hour, but all he could do was whine plaintively.

John’s hands were on his body, then. Roger felt the cold steel of a knife as it slit the tape holding his calves against the backs of his thighs, and he groaned as he could finally straighten his legs. John peeled the tape away fastidiously before allowing Roger to sit up on the edge of the bed. He felt momentarily light headed after having lain prone for so long, and must have swayed forward, for his hands caught Roger’s by the shoulders.

“Okay?” John asked. Roger was amazed at the conciliatory tone in his voice. It was as though he was helping Roger in a perfectly normal situation, like having dropped a parcel in a shopping mall. The still-tied man recovered his balance and sat there.

“Roger, I’m going to undo some of the tape. I don’t want any trouble from you, or you’ll wind up in a far worse situation than you can possibly imagine. You will behave. Do you understand? Nod for me if you do.” Roger bent his head forward, having no choice.

John rolled Roger onto his stomach again, and he felt the tape slowly cut away from his arms below the elbows. He flexed his fingers but had little movement beyond that, with the elbows themselves still firmly bound. But he was not to be freed just like that. It was merely a change, not a removal of his bonds. Several turns of cord were wrapped around each wrist and knotted separately. Obviously there were two tails attached to these, for as he was allowed to sit up again, Roger felt the two pieces of rope pulled around his body to be tied in front.

The rest of the tape then came off his upper arms and from around his body. John was apparently incapable of doing this without groping his cock and tweaking his nipples in the process, it seemed, but Roger was so pleased to have some of the tightness removed from his body that he barely noticed. With the last of the tape removed, John pulled on the two ropes encircling his body, and he found out exactly how he had been secured as his arms were pulled into a kind of straightjacket tie behind him, his left wrist touching his right elbow and vice versa. Roger made more whining noises, not that these made any difference.

Now John turned his attention to his head. This was more painful, as the tape was firmly stuck to his hair. Roger assumed he complained rather too much as the tape came away and he got the impression that John didn’t suffer fools gladly. Roger received a sudden slap on the face. His tone had changed dramatically.

“Be quiet! Would you like me to leave it on, Rog? Well?” Miserably Roger shook his head. There was more cutting and pulling and he gritted his teeth as it came away as a mass of tape probably in the shape of his head. That still left the individual strips John had first placed over his mouth and eyes.

With the removal of the tape, the sweat poured down his face in the rivulets that had accumulated underneath. Roger felt it dripping off his chin on to his nightshirt. His hair was wet and plastered down. He could smell his own sweat and an overtone of fear mingled with it.

“Stand up!” John ordered harshly. He seemed to be stopping short of finally removing the last pieces of tape. Roger did as he was told, and was guided across the room, his feet experiencing the coldness of bare concrete as he did so. Roger was backed against some sort of a chair. He felt the metal frame against the back of his knees and sat down. The chair did not move with his arrival and he quickly established it was somehow bolted to the floor. It seemed to be a basic chair of the type you often find in conferences – padded seat and back on a steel frame. The rope connecting his wrists was loosened enough for his arms to slide behind the back of the chair before the cord was re-tied at navel level. Things were still passable until a wide leather strap was buckled around him, just below his nipples, pinning Roger to the chair. John grunted as he pulled the thing tight and fastened the buckle. Then some sort of leather cuff was secured on each ankle, which then got pulled backwards to be tethered to the rear of the frame, so that his feet were off the ground. When a second strap was buckled tightly across his thighs, Roger thought the extent of his confinement had been reached. But this man had not quite finished with him as a rope was run from the left rear leg of the chair, over his right shoulder, around his throat and down to the right leg. He pulled it just tight enough so that his head was forced to stay in an erect position.

There came a silence and Roger could feel John’s eyes on him, gauging and appraising his bound form. The sound of another chair followed, grating on the bare concrete.

“Yes, hmm, very nice,” he said, sounding pleased. “You make a wonderful exhibit, Roger. Quite stunning, you know. I expect you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here. Or maybe you’ve worked out a few things in the process. Smart boy like you… Of course you have. Well then, let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Are we comfortable?” Roger could only incline his head slightly.

“I hope so. You have been placed in that position so that you can focus properly on what I am about to tell you. It is very important that you understand fully the nature of your captivity, the purpose of it, and most importantly, the absolute nature of it. Simply put, you will not leave here until I decide. If ever. Is that clear?” 

Roger made no movement.

“I said, is that clear?!” John’s voice changed suddenly from a calm, reasoned tone to a louder, firmer tone and there was a swish in the air, followed by a biting pain across his left nipple where it was confined by the cotton of his shirt. Roger cried out in pain behind the tape and nodded his head as much as he was able with the rope about his throat, which was really very little.

He was all smoothness and warmth in the next breath.

“Good, very good, Roger. I’m glad we understand each other. Today I am only going to tell you a little of the story. I will tell you more tomorrow, perhaps, depending on how adept a student you prove to be,” John said, a tone of amusement in his voice.

“As you have probably guessed, Roger, My name is John. Yes, I to whom you have confided your doubts and desires for the past six months. I know a lot about you now. It’s a shame you have to miss your holiday, but that is a problem that doesn’t concern you, as I may explain in more detail tomorrow – or some time later. The important thing is that you are now here in my dungeon, which is now your home for the foreseeable future. It sounds a little melodramatic, doesn’t it – the word ‘dungeon’.” John chuckled. “There are no rats. There is no moss on the walls with initials carved in it from previous inhabitants. Soundproofed and constructed to world’s best... ‘practice’. In due course, I will let you study it more closely, and from less restrictive confinement. But make no mistake, you will remain under restraint for as long as I consider necessary, until you bend to my will completely.

“The reason you have been brought here, Roger, is both experimental and for my personal gain,” he continued. “It is experimental in the sense that you have in effect been condemned to a life as a slave – MY slave. You will remain confined here while your training takes place. One day, when you have demonstrated your complete and total submission to my will, you may be permitted some _small_ degree of freedom. Oh yes, I know – it all sounds over the top and a bit of a mad scientist, but this is the twenty first century, Roger. Strange things happen in the world over every day. People go missing and are never found…

“In the meantime, you will obey me without hesitation. I know what you’re thinking. The whole business of BDSM – this is not like what I told you, is it? No, there’s none of that consensual crap here. None of the loving relationships stuff and the gift of total trust in the power exchange. This is simple and basic. I am in total control of you. You will eat only when I decide. You will sleep when I decide. You will go for a shit when I decide!” His nasal voice rose an octave. “Am I getting through to you, Roger Taylor?”

Roger nodded, abruptly feeling his body start to tremble as much as it was able in his confinement. The room at once seemed to go from hot to cold at the import of his words. This guy was a psychopath. A certifiable mental case. A part of Roger’s mind went into denial, telling him it was all a mistake and that this was really just a cruel joke, and in a minute John would let Roger go free and take him to the airport in time to catch his plane.

“In short, Roger, your very life is dependent on me. I can leave you chained up here to die of starvation. Or thirst. It would be a long and lingering process. Or there would be other ways that would be much quicker and less painful. The point I am making is that while a Master is responsible for the welfare of his slave, if that slave fails to perform, the welfare will suffer. Disobedience will be punished. It will be severe. Do you understand, Roger?”

Another nod.

“Good. We will get to your training in due course. My final point for the moment is that you may dismiss all hope from your mind of any form of escape. If you so much as think of it, I will know, and you will regret it in the most agonising way. We are not playing at master and slave, here. This will be a scientific experiment, to determine just what it takes to break your will. I will document this in the most methodical manner. White mice in cages are out of fashion in this world. Only by dealing with real people can you understand what makes them tick.

“And just to put an end to your wondering, Roger, it wasn’t hard to track down your new address. I have a friend somewhere who has access to all sorts of goodies on the personal lists of names and addresses. You changed everything else, Roger, when you left London, but I have your old number. It was a simple matter to trace the change of address against it. Then I could keep a close eye on you. I couldn’t believe my luck when you moved up to Manchester. And of course all that stuff about me being out of town was a fabrication – but you’ve guessed that already, haven’t you?

”And I’m sorry you have to miss your holiday. You won’t be missed, of course. I’ll sort that out. I wish I could go in your place, you know – I’d really like an overseas trip. Do you know, I’ve never been outside England? Don’t even have a passport. Yet you’ve travelled all over the world. A little bit inequitable, don’t you think, Roger? But of course what goes around, comes around, and to all intents and purposes you’ve had your little fling, and now it’s my turn.”

There was the sound of the other chair rasping on the floor as John stood up.

“I must say, Roger, you are much more attractive than I had imagined when I first spoke to you in London. Funny how you form a picture of someone in your mind, and often it’s totally false. What do you think I look like, Roger?”

Roger felt the closeness of his person, the rustle of clothes and the smell of cigarettes. He shook his head in despair. Roger had formed some sort of vague notion of dark hair and a warm, strong attractive personality. Boy, had he got that part wrong. There was no warmth in John’s voice now as he moved around behind Roger.

“Never mind. You will find out all in good time. I am going to leave you now, Roger. I want you to focus on four things while I am gone. Do make sure that you listen to me.”

“First of all, there is no escape,” John paused to let his words sank into Roger.

“Secondly, you will do exactly what I say, without hesitation.

“Thirdly, any resistance or disobedience will be punished severely. You will sit and ponder on these three points as though your life depends on it, because maybe it does.

“The fourth point is something to look forward to. Tomorrow your training begins. It will start with a thorough flogging and whipping that will leave you in pain from head to toe, Roger. This will simply be necessary to lay down a baseline, to show who really is the Master, and who is the worthless slave. It is to expose your limits and to demonstrate my power, you see. It will be very unpleasant for you, but absolutely necessary. It will leave you scarred mentally and physically and will be an experience you will never forget as long as you live or as long as you remain here, whichever ends first.

”Like a visit to the dentist there is a natural fear that comes with the anticipation of pain, and it is important that you experience this as well. That is why I am telling you that you will experience the full horror of the clamps on all parts of your body, the weights on the clamps, and the whips, crops and floggers that will lay waste to the most intimate parts of your body, and you will experience pain the like of which you have never imagined possible.”

John explained this with such matter-of-fact calm voice, as one might explain the sunny weather. Roger could not believe what he was hearing, and the manner in which John told him sent shivers down his spine and left a hollow dead feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was the departing tread of footsteps on the concrete then a heavy door closing. It sounded as though it was made of steel, and it shut with a hollow booming sound that echoed momentarily with a horrible finality.

Roger sat there in his misery. He tried to cry, but the tape over his eyes made this impossible. Instead they seemed only to sting and his nose began to run instead. He could do nothing to stop this as the mucus ran down over the tape covering his mouth and dripped onto his chest. The desperate man struggled and jerked hard against the ropes and straps holding him tightly, but it was utterly futile. Everything was tied too well and all buckles were out of reach. The chair was definitely bolted to the floor, for it didn’t give an inch. Poor Roger moaned and tried to scream behind the tape in a panic of frustration and mounting terror that he might not emerge from this predicament alive. The deep foreboding fear that had been lurking in his innermost depths now rose to the surface. This was not some sort of joke that would burst upon him and everything would be made good. He had been kidnapped for some intention that he still did not understand. Roger wanted to sob, but even that outlet was denying him. Instead he could only moan and mew in despair.

 

*  *  *

 

Roger lost track of time again. The position he had been secured in was not unbearable. He suspected it had been deliberately intended as such so that his discomfort did not distract Roger from thoughts of his future. He may have nodded off once or twice, but the pressure of the rope around his windpipe brought him back to reality with a start each time. And each time the same reality left him with that cold clamminess of fear gripping his body. Roger listened for the door, dreading its opening. He wanted to pee by now. The mewling drummer had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, but he was becoming increasingly desperate to relieve himself. He was hungry, too, but only in the way that his stomach was empty, as distinct from actually having an appetite. How much longer? Roger felt like a prisoner on death row waiting for the tramp of the warders’ feet, as the escort would come to take him to the execution chamber.

Sitting in the silence unnerved him. The only sounds he could hear were movements from upstairs on the floor above. No sounds from outside seemed able to penetrate his prison. He tried to reason what that would mean. Roger seemed to be at some sort of underground chamber, with large grounds that would shield the house from traffic noise and prying eyes? Maybe the soundproofing was just too good and there was still a road quite near…

‘Why was John doing this to me?’ This question kept repeating itself in Roger’s chaotic mind. Despite what he said about the master and slave thing, Roger was sure there was something more to it than this. John had hinted that he was only telling Roger part of the story at this stage. He had talked about personal gain.

‘What could he hope to get from me? Was it sexual?’ So far he had refrained from taking obvious advantage of Roger. The guy was obviously a control freak into sadism in some sort of major way. Or was he playing games with him – letting his mind work overtime in visualising what lay ahead? Surely he would not go through with such horrors?’ After his running train of thoughts, Roger began to shake again, eventually overcoming it only with a major focus to pee.

His desperation to urinate was a spur that kept him from dozing further. Whatever else happened, Roger could not bear the thought of disgracing himself. He was terrified of what John might do to him. Roger was never a strong man who liked to solve his problems by fist. Heck, his ex Freddie was always the one to tell guys off if Roger was being harassed in a pub for looking ‘pretty and feminine’.

‘Freddie… How is he doing now? Does he even miss me?’ Roger’s heart suddenly ached longingly for his caring past lover. Roger had never regretted his choice to end things up with someone before.

After a long time of self pity and pondering, the key finally turned in the lock and the door swung open with a faint creak. Roger turned his head and moaned pitifully, squirming as best he could in his bonds.

There came the footsteps again and the cigarette smell.

“How are you doing, Roger?” said the voice beside his ear. It seemed calm and easy, and it was this casualness that scared him the most. “Are you hungry? I bet you are. I bet you’re dying for a piss as well.” Thank God! Roger nodded emphatically.

“Well Roger, here’s your first quandary. I have your meal here with me. It’s in a glass and it comes with a straw. Just like a thick shake – very nutritious. But you have to make a decision – you can go for a leak now, and miss out on your meal or drink it now, and wait fifteen minutes before you get to relieve yourself.” He chuckled. He seemed to find the situation genuinely humorous. “So which is it to be, Roger? One nod for drink now, two nods for a pee and no food.”

Roger thought for a moment. His desperation should not be replaced by starvation, he knew. He had no idea what lay ahead of him, and his practical mind told him he had to keep up his strength. Roger nodded once.

“A good decision, Roger. You still have your wits about you, I see. I wonder how you’ll be thinking after twenty or thirty hours without proper sleep and after a sustained flogging. Something to really think about, isn’t it?” Roger was now conscious of John’s breathing close in front of him, and then his hands were on Roger’s head, one gripping him by the jaw while something pointy was pressed into the tape across his mouth. His lips felt the cold touch of steel as a pointy screwdriver or something similar made a small hole through the gag. Moments later a straw was thrust through this penetration and Roger sucked greedily. The liquid was indeed the consistency of a thick shake, but tasted bland. He did not know how much was in the glass, nor how long John would let him drink, so he went as fast as he could, ignoring his protesting bladder. The liquid filled his stomach and after a minute or two, Roger concluded it was a large glass he had been given. It seemed to go on forever. He tried to pull away, but one hand held him by the back of his head.

“You will stop drinking when I tell you to stop, Rog,” John ordered. Roger continued, feeling his stomach fill until finally there was a slurping noise that indicated the end of the process.

“Good boy.” John was almost complimentary, talking the way one would to a small child. The straw was taken out and another piece of tape was pressed over the small hole remaining. Again Roger felt the pressure on his bladder and could not help a plaintive whine. John ignored him and began to play with Roger’s hair, running his fingers through it in what seemed to be almost a thoughtful manner.

“I’ve seen you with a plait before, Roger. It suits you. I think we’ll give you one now. It will make an excellent anchor point.” By now, Roger’s hair has passed his shoulder and was long enough to be plaited.

‘Anchor point? God, what was he going to do to me?’ The strong hands began to twist through his hair and he felt the roots being tugged methodically into a plait, but it was on top of his head, not at the back, where he sometimes had it. Roger did not like where this was leading. It took John perhaps ten minutes to do it. He had clearly done it before and knew what he wanted. The ends were tied off somehow and his hair was then tightly stretched across his scalp into this single top plait that now flopped against the back of his head.

“It’s time for a change of blindfold, Roger. That tape is a bit inconvenient for long term, I think. We want something a little more comfortable, don’t you agree?” Comfortable?  This was the first time John had expressed any concern remotely connected with his comfort. Already Roger had seen John as someone who did nothing without a good reason – someone with agendas and motives. He had decided also that Roger’s comfort did not rank highly on any of those lists.

“I am going to pull the tape off, Roger, and if you so much as flutter an eyelid, I will have you hanging by your plait. Nod if you understand.” John’s voice was icy all of a sudden, and there was no mistaking the intention behind his statement. Roger absolutely believed him, and he nodded in acknowledgement and out of fear.

First one piece of tape, then the other, was pulled clear of his eyelids. Roger kept them closed, despite the temptation to sneak a look at his prison. There was precious little time for this however, for some form of harness or hood was pulled into place over his head. It seemed to be made of thick rubber, and had holes for his ears, the plait and his nose. It stopped just below his nose, the edge running around under his ears to the nape of his neck. Soft padding was pressed hard against his eyes, but it was definitely more comfortable than the tape. A strap was buckled under his chin and Roger swore he detected a click of a tiny padlock.

With no further explanation. John untied the knot at his navel that secured his arms in the straightjacket position, and with relief he finally let them drop, only to have them captured again and bound together, palm to palm in front, with the trailing ropes encircling his wrists further before being cinched off, leaving them rigidly secured. There followed the release of the straps securing Roger to the chair and the ropes attached to his ankle cuffs.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Roger did so, and John led him across the room until he felt the cold touch of a toilet bowl against his legs. His captor turned him about and thrust a roll of toilet paper into his hands. “You have five minutes,” he said brusquely.

Roger sat down gingerly, establishing that the toilet had no seat, that he was sitting directly on the porcelain. he knew that John was watching, but his need was so urgent that Roger didn’t care. He had no way of knowing when he might next have the opportunity, and resolved to make the most of any such chance.

With difficulty he lowered his pyjamas pants down with his bound hands and wiggled his arse, then let nature take its course with little encouragement needed. For the first time since his capture Roger felt better, albeit in a small way. He began to be more aware of his surroundings and to start to consider the possibility of escaping.

John gave Roger little opportunity for this the moment he had finished his ablutions. Roger was dragged unceremoniously across the room and his bound wrists were secured to some sort of pulley rope, for at once there was the sound of a ratchet and his arms began to rise. They touched the cold metal of a post in front of him, and his hands briefly explored a circular steel post, maybe fifteen centimetres in diameter, that must have been some sort of support column for the house above. As his hands rose above his head, Roger moved forward until he touched the steel post with his nose. Roger doesn’t know what he expected to learn from this. It simply seemed a small piece of information that might one day form part of a larger jigsaw that he needed to understand in order to escape.

The ratchet noise stopped, with his hands a little above his head. he was not fully stretched out, and wondered at this. His curiosity was addressed moments later when a rope was tied to each of his ankle cuffs. Oh shit, Roger thought – what was John doing?

Roger was quickly enlightened as John nudged his feet apart and backward, at the same time pulling on the ropes attached to them. He found his ankles widely spread and suddenly with tension on the rope tethering his wrists as he was moved backwards away from the post.

“Alright, be a good lad for me and stay like that, Rog,” John patted Roger’s wet cheek almost affectionately.

Roger saw at once what John was up to and his heart sank. His next sentence confirmed this, and also left Roger wondering what grander scheme this psycho had planned.

“I’m leaving you now. I shall be gone maybe five or six hours. I have to pay another visit to your house. Time is of the essence, you see, Rog. There are things to do, concerning which you will be advised in due course. In the meantime, you may practice your patience or your isometrics or whatever you see most befitting to your present circumstances.” And then John was gone, with the terrible sound of the door closing.

*  *  *

The position he found himself in was tolerable for a short time, after which it became more and more painful as his muscles began to weaken. As a biologist he knew what was happening to his body. His arms were raised above and forward of him, meaning that his back and legs had to counter the tendency for him to tip forward. Roger could not put too much weight on the rope, as that would only exacerbate the situation. His legs were spread and the ropes attached to his ankles were tied to anchor points somewhere behind him. His calves and thighs were likewise under strain because of the spread, but also because of the load on his arms.

Roger could not tell the passage of time. He guessed that half an hour had gone, by which time things had started to get very uncomfortable and he could feel the muscles in his back and legs beginning to protest. He could not fully straighten his back or lean backwards any further, because his arms were now at full stretch. It was all he could do to stop toppling forward as his strength began to weaken. The sinews were beginning to knot along the backs of his calves as he desperately considered his options. If he did fall forward, what would his position be?

Roger could feel his strength failing. If he went forward, what if his feet slipped out? he would end up hanging by his wrists. His hands were already numb from the bonds and from being held up above his head. He was starting to become really desperate and scared. He would never keep this up for six hours!

As the pain grew in his back he began to cry again. This time, under the hood and the eye padding, the tears found their way out, unlike with the terrible tape. The foam eye pads became saturated and his eyes stung, but he felt the wetness trickle down his cheeks.

At length he could sustain the tension no longer, and with his heart in his mouth he slowly toppled forward, desperately trying to maintain his footing, his hands spread as wide as they could, as though trying to catch a cricket ball. They collided with the pole after a very short distance, maybe only six inches, and he gripped it desperately, trying to make sure he stopped his momentum at that point and did not slip past it. Roger’s heart was beating wildly and he was panting hard through his nose.

He forced himself to relax and examined his new position. It took some of the pressure off his back, since his forearms were now touching the pole over their full length and could take some of the weight, but he was now leaning forward on his legs, and from being flat on his feet he was now resting on the balls of them, the cuffs taut on his ankles.

More time passed, and the drag on his arms and legs became intolerable. His back, previously straining not to bend forward, now sagged under the weight of his body. His tears had stopped after his forward movement, so relieved was he at pulling it off, but as the new strains on his muscles took their toll, he could not help but let the mood of self pity take hold of him.

Roger wondered what John was up to. Focussing on this took him away from his torment, at least briefly. What was he doing in his house? Was he robbing it? Where did that fit in with his kidnapping? Roger had a feeling that this was still to come, that it was on his agenda, but at a time that suited him. You did not go to all this trouble to kidnap a man and torture him without some element of sexual punishment coming into the picture. However much he dreaded such a turn of events, he was realistic enough to expect this. John had been too into the bondage scene not to exploit this, if the advice he had given him in London was anything to go by.

Everything John had done to date, the whole planning of his abduction, from the tracking down of his address from the phone company to the leaving of presents, the mind games, the watching, and now the deliberately debilitating bondage torment all showed a calculating mind that had a goal to be achieved. It was this likelihood that scared Roger most of all. He did not know how much pain he could tolerate. he had never been in a situation where he had had to cope with physical pain in any major way. His life had been free of stays in hospital, of broken limbs or major accidents or diseases. He had no idea what his limits were and what he could withstand. Roger only knew that any chance he had of survival was going to depend on his willpower being greater than his. Likewise, any chance he had for escape would depend on his ability to outthink John, to spot the weak link, the thing that he had overlooked.

All these thoughts passed though his head in a random manner as he hung disconsolately against the post, feeling his strength ebbing slowly. His elbows had slowly spread, letting him rest the rubber encasing his forehead against the steel column. His back ached and he could feel little runnels of sweat slide down his legs. His feet were in grave danger of cramping, as were his calves. he knew the first signs from his time playing drum, and the thought of this brought more trepidation to his mind. His feet began to slip, little by little as the concrete became wet with sweat. Every so often Roger would have to drag his foot forward to the limit of its tether as the load came down more heavily on his arms.

His hands had long since lost their feeling and he was now starting to whimper to himself with the strain on all his muscles. he was keening a tuneless, self-pitying dirge, sniffling as the tears of pain slipped down his cheeks, when the door finally clanged open.

John said nothing at first and seemed to pause, for perhaps a minute, watching Roger’s struggle, then he undid the ropes attached to the post, and Roger thought he heard John chuckle under his breath. He pulled Roger backwards until he was finally able to stand up straight and to lower his arms. Delivered from the intense strain his body began to shake again and his knees went wobbly. He could still not sit down to rest his quivering legs, but any relief was blessed. Roger realised he was still keening softly and stopped, not wanting to give him any more comfort.

“You’ve done well, Roger,” said the voice. “Not bad for a first time. Mind you, I must stress that this is only the beginning. I’m going to break you – you need to understand that. There is no other outcome possible here.” Again, the calm matter-of-fact tone sent shivers up his spine. “But now it’s late. I want to get some sleep. Unfortunately, that is something you will not be doing. I like a good eight-hour sleep. What about you?” he hung his head but made no sound. “It’s irrelevant, anyway, he said dismissively. “Now we have to prepare you for bed.”

His heart jumped when John suddenly inserted his already lubed finger to Roger’s hole. Roger felt the familiar sensation of burn entering his hole. He moaned in protest through his gag, but this only resulted in getting his bum slapped by his captor, a warning for him to stay silent.

John pumped his finger in and out, and then inserted one more finger, crisscrossing them inside Roger’s hole to stretch him out. His mind screamed profanities and struggle, but to his disgust and surprise, Roger’s body decided to go completely against his mind and reacted to the intrusion in his arse.

John had long and slender fingers, it turned out, for now he had found Roger’s prostate and teasingly nudged it over and over until Roger’s breath quickened.

“You like this, don’t you Rog?” Asked the amused voice behind him. Roger wanted to curse John with all his might but the only sound he’d managed to produce was an embarrassing high-pitched moan that said otherwise.

“Mmmhhhh!”

“Thought so.”

Between the combination of the stressing environment that he was put a pressure on right now and the fact that he could do nothing about his current situation had made Roger felt really ashamed of himself when he felt a slow wave of orgasm was about to engulf him. Just as he was about to come, the fingers inside him abruptly stopped and pulled themselves out. Roger’s heart sank and he whined in frustration. His bound hands struggled to break free so he could finish himself off.

“Not so fast, Roger. Do remember that you can’t have your orgasm without my consent from now on,” a slapped to his rear and another helpless moan was ensued.

John said no more for a short time and Roger could hear him moving about the room. Then his nightshirt was lifted and a nozzle was inserted in his rectum, delivering a cold squirt of what he presumed was lubricant. Oh no, Roger groaned, ‘please, not that!’

There followed the cold intrusion of some kind of butt plug. It was not as big as the one Brian had used, but he still squirmed and tried instinctively to reject it. His rebellion was punished by a sharp pinch on his left nipple, which made me squeal behind the tape. “I’d behave, if I were you, Rog,” said the voice curtly.  “Relax and let it in – or I will force it anyway.”

“And just for a reminder of this rule, I will put this vibrator inside you while I’m sleeping. I’m going to set it off on the lowest level. That ought to put yourself in the brink of orgasm and denying you of one at the same time.”

‘What?’ Roger screamed in his mind and shook his head profusely as best as he could. He could feel the impending nudge on his open entrance and oh boy was it bigger than he’d previously thought! Roger could feel himself being stretched out when the toy was fully inserted. It’s like an eel that forced itself into its nest to rest but still incessantly moved around.

True to what John had said, after the vibrator was fully inside him, John must have turned the switch on with its wireless controller to its lowest setting, making Roger squirmed helplessly in his bond to get the relief he needed. His cock was leaking with precum, and the feeling of the soft humming thing against his prostate didn’t help either. He tried to move his thigh closer together to get the friction and have the climax he badly needed. But John had effectively pulled his legs apart and made it impossible for Roger to pleasure himself in any way possible.

To make matters worse, Roger suddenly felt a cold sensation of a metal was put snugly at the base of his cock. He didn’t have to be a genius to guess what John had put there.

It was a cock ring. A cruel, tiny device that made Roger’s little hope to cum all shattered. It would be impossible now for him to achieve his orgasm with this device cruelly coiled around him. John had made sure of that.

“Mmmmhhh…. mmmhh,” Roger continued to moan pitifully through his gag and silently begging for John to touch him and took off the ring. How long would John deny him his release?

“I’d behave, if I were you, Roger,” said the voice curtly. “Relax and accept it – or I will force it anyway.”

He saw reason and let the horrid ring slide into place. A belt was placed around his waist under the nightshirt and buckled behind him, with a tight cock strap connected from front to back and buckled tightly there as well. It seemed his implants were not going to be readily expelled. Roger could feel some sort of weights hanging from the belt. They seemed to be like huge padlocks, one at each hip and one in the small of his back. The metal was cold and bulky against his flesh. he wondered anxiously what such enormous locks could possibly be for, and why they were covered by his shirt.

The ropes connected to his ankle cuffs were undone at this point and he was at last able to draw his feet together to relieve the awful tension in his thighs. It would have felt marvellous had the awful unknown expectation of what was to come next been hanging over him he was walked several paces and made to sit on the edge of a bed. There appeared to be no bedclothes, just a foam mattress that felt as though the original plastic covering had not yet been removed. There was a click at his feet as his ankle cuffs were locked together.

“Put out your hands,” he was ordered. he did so, sightlessly holding them out in front of Roger; his fingers steepled in the attitude of prayer. If Roger had been religious he would have been well into his repertoire of prayers by that stage, but he knew there was no future there. There came the tight constriction of duct tape as it wound around his fingers and hands down to the wrists and over the rope wrapped around them. His arms had become now locked into a kind of diving position, as though he was about to leap off the edge of the pool. His fingers and hands had become rigid under the tape, and he realised abruptly how his movements were about to be curtailed. This was something quite different from what he had just gone through.

John looped a rope around his neck in what felt like a noose and pulled his head forward so that it was a handspan above his knees, then tied the loose end of the rope to his ankle cuffs.

“You’re almost ready, Roger. But before I complete your ensemble for the night I thought I’d fill you in on a few things you may wish to consider. Firstly, I am about to tape a pair of industrial earmuffs over your pretty head, which is why I am telling you this now, since you are about to become deaf, as well as dumb and blind. Inside the earmuffs are speakers, just like you have on your Walkman that you like to use when you go running. Yes, I’ve watched you. These speakers are connected to a tape, which is connected to a timer. It’s like a Walkman, but really won’t have a lot for you to listen to – just enough to stop you from nodding off, yes?

“Something else which might also help you in this regard is this question. What do the following have in common: furniture vans, used car salesmen, ATM’s and real estate? I’ll leave you to think about this little riddle. Maybe tomorrow I’ll help you work out the answer.”

While Roger was still struggling to grasp the meaning of his words the earmuffs were clamped on his head and secured immovably in place with metres of tape horizontally and vertically around his head. He felt a cable slipped down the back of his shirt and he was tipped forward briefly while he pulled up the rear of it. There was more tape, this time around his waist, pulling what felt like a knot of cables into the small of his back, and clearly that wasn’t going to be moved in a hurry. But there was another cable or cord he could feel, nestling against the cock strap and seeming to run up to his waist where it was taped next to the Walkman in the small of his back. Roger whined tiredly, startled at how loud his voice sounded with all extraneous noise suddenly filtered out. That was the point when he was pushed backward on to the bed and left alone with his thoughts.

The quiet humming inside him left Roger panting with his breath. He tried to wiggle his arse with the restricted movement that he was allowed to, and it was useless. He couldn’t come like this. His poor cock had been deflating and suddenly hard again when the stimulation inside him was too much. But when Roger was about to cum, he was reminded over and over again if the little metal snake and its cage that was wrapped around his cock, making it painful for him if he got too hard and thus forcing him to calm his raging lust down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello~~ Happy holiday, folks! I have quite a lot of time in my hands right now so I decided to write and upload the chapter earlier. I will go on a vacation for a week, though, so the next chapter will be quite delayed than the usual schedule (Saturdays).  
> What do you think of this chapter? ;) Finally we know who kidnapped poor Rog!! Dun Dun Dun~~ congrats to some of you who have guessed correctly in the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy this new chapter of WDMNW! As usual, leave your thoughts and kudos below. I crave your comments like moth to flame - V.


	7. Tumbling into The Chasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger tried running away. Will he be able to do so?

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 7 – Tumbling into the Chasm**

 

Roger thought he detected the vibration of the door closing behind him, but his world was now different without his sense of hearing. He was left to explore his new predicament as best he could, lying on the plastic-covered mattress. It did not take Roger long to discover that while his new attitude was not as stringent as the earlier position he had been in, it was imbued with subtleties he had not appreciated.

He found out his first problem when he reflexively tried to straighten his legs, only to feel the connecting rope suddenly tighten about his throat. Roger panicked momentarily, but the knot was relatively loose and slipped out again as he pulled his ankles in. The rope ran inside the triangle formed with his bound arms, and even though he could get his hands up to his throat, to his head, his gag, his blindfold and the muffs, the totality of the bindings on his fingers and hands left him quite helpless. Not to mention the egg vibrator inside him would dig deeper if he made even a slight movement.

Roger was absolutely unable to do anything with his hands, even though he could move them about. He was at once frustrated and upset. He could not believe there was no play in his fingers, but they might as well have been set in concrete, so effective was the tape binding them.

His next conclusion was why the padlocks were on the chastity belt around his waist. It was nothing to do with securing him. They were simply big and bulky enough to make it impossibly uncomfortable to lie on his side for anything more than a few minutes. Lying on his back was just about an impossibility anyway, given his neck-to-ankles connection, but John was evidently Mr Methodical and liked to be certain his prey was not about to find a weak link.

Roger tried to fiddle with the belts, but his hands were useless, and any other attempts to expel the vibrating device embedded inside him proved useless. He slumped on his side, already feeling hot from his exertions. But his side proved uncomfortable with the lock on his hip, so after much struggle he managed to get on his knees, rather in the attitude of a Muslim at prayer. There was that religious thing again! Roger wondered if there really was a God, or were these similes just popping out of his brain to mock him?

‘What sort of God would let this happen to me?’ He asked himself, but met with no intelligible answer.

On his knees on the mattress he felt almost in control. Roger could squirm his way around a little bit, for there was slackness in the ankle cuffs. He came across the cables leading from the knot in the small of his back. They went to the foot of the bed where they appeared to be tied to the steel frame before disappearing off somewhere else in the room. They seemed to serve a dual purpose in confining him to the bed and providing some sort of electrical connection. It was this latter part that scared him, for he was not so stupid as to not expect what was likely to happen.

But time passed, and nothing eventuated. He thought about the riddle that John had posed, about… what was it again? Real estate and used car salesmen and ATM’s? What else was there? Furniture vans? No, he didn’t get it. Roger began to get warm as he thought about it, and realised John must have turned the heating up. He tugged on the cables, trying to budge the one knotted in the small of his back or the one tied to the bed, but without success. Even though he could touch the knots on the bed frame with his taped hands, he could do nothing with them, other than to beat against them in frustration.

It got warmer and Roger retired to his praying position, with his head just touching the top of the bed frame at the foot of the bed. Sometime soon after that he must have dozed, for he awoke with a start to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment he was totally confused – confused by the familiar sound he knew so well, and confused by the restrictions on his movement, then also his speech and sight. He wondered where he was, then the awful reality came back to him, and Roger realised the ringing he could hear was through the speakers inside the ear protectors. As he came to his senses he also concluded that John must have recorded the particular ring of his landline. It was distinctive and he knew it as his own. It was not a coincidence. The ringing stopped, and he collected his thoughts.

So John had no doubt got the sound from when he was rifling through Roger’s house. The thought of that at once annoyed and frightened him further – the knowledge that his house was open to his whim, that he could come and go and take anything he wanted. But it was more than this – it was the thought of him exploring through his belongings and doing whatever he wanted there. Why this should have bothered him so much, considering the situation he was in, he doesn’t know. His mind was not terribly logical at that moment.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shock in his rectum that left him panting noisily as he at first tried to straighten out then curled into a foetal position on his side. It lasted only a fraction of a second but it was surprisingly painful and pleasurable at the same time, sending his legs momentarily into spasm. The rope tightened on his neck briefly before he could control his limbs enough to loosen it again. By that time Roger was making moaning noises behind the tape, like the kind a little kid makes when it is all out of tears and a lack of breath catches up with it – a kind of gasp, pant and moan mixed into a succession of small grunts.

For now, he trembled from the shock for several minutes. The helpless man did not know how often he was going to get this treatment, nor did he know how long he could withstand it, nor even whether he had a choice. The room became suddenly freezing, as though the air conditioning had been turned way up, and he began to shake further, but this time from the cold. The sweat soaking his shirt was damp and chill and his keening beneath the tape was an unconscious reaction as he squirmed about trying to stay warm. He was starting to appreciate the vulnerability of his position in this dungeon, at the mercy of these technological torture devices.

Maybe fifteen minutes passed, and the temperature slowly came back to normal. His exertions subsided and Roger was nearly ready to nod off again when the sound of the landline phone in his ears jarred him fully alert. He crouched on the mattress, waiting for what might next happen, waiting for the terrible pain up his bottom. The minutes ticked by.

When it came it seemed worse than before, possibly because he was waiting for it and had amplified it in his own mind. Roger jerked and cried out beneath the tape over his mouth, then he was on his side again, making pathetic noises to the world, half numb with the shock and letting the tears flow beneath the thick padding under the rubber helmet. After this the temperature resumed its upward cycle and he lay there, letting the pounding of his heart and the blood throbbing in his ears slowly subside as he began to sweat again. The cotton clung to his body like a second skin and he could feel the plastic wet and slippery beneath him. ‘How long would I have to endure this?’ Roger wondered.

The next time the phone rang he was almost dozing off again. He snapped awake with a despairing moan and tried to steel himself for the shock. Several minutes elapsed before he finally felt not the violent jolt of the plug up his rear passage, but the subtle vibrations of the vibrator lodged inside him. It turned out the thing had two combinations of emanating painful shock and vibrating a pleasure sensation.

This was something Roger hadn’t expected, and he had tried to push to the back of his mind the thought that he could possibly expect an electrical shock in this location. But this was totally unforeseen. The vibrations began at a low frequency and hovered there for several minutes, then gradually began to increase. Despite what he had experienced maybe fifteen minutes previously, he began to become aroused by the insistent buzzing. His cock had once again stood on its own will. He tried to squirm around to make himself more accessible, then tried to get his taped hands down there to help it along its way, but the fact that they were taped in a sticking out position with the ankle/neck rope inside them, meant that he could not get his hands near his hard cock with any degree of satisfaction at all. He had no choice but to let nature take its course.

The frequency built up steadily and his breathing began to come faster and more raggedly as he let the vibrations do their thing. Roger found himself grinding his hips, trying to bring himself to a climax, ignoring all the pain he had been through up until that moment. Ignoring, too, any semblance of embarrassment or dignity that he might have conceivably have retained.

The abrupt halting of these wonderful feelings, followed by another jolt in his bottom, however, left him in a confused welter of sensations of pain, despair and frustration. John Deacon was clearly skilled at reading men’s reactions and needs. The sudden deprivation of an anticipated orgasm left him in tears of vexation and the disappointing deflation of his cock, never mind the pain of the way it had ceased. Such was to be the pattern for Roger's first full night of captivity.

 

*  *  *

 

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to understand the fact that it was the longest night of Roger’s life. The interminable cycle of electrical stimulation – pain and pleasure – mixed with changes in temperature within the room left him sleepless and exhausted, which was obviously the intention of John. In the back of his mind, he knew that if he ever survived what John had intended for him, Roger would never again be able to listen to this particular ringing of a phone without reacting by the resurrection of experiences that were being deeply instilled into his psyche. The very act of linking his own phone with the pain/pleasure was particularly insidious, Roger thought, and anyone who could be that devious was to be feared, he knew.

The bound drummer had lost all concept of time – how long it was between jolts and buzzings he could not tell, nor how many cycles he underwent. He sweated in the heat – perspiration that froze as the temperature then plummeted and he shivered and tried to warm himself. Sometimes he nearly dozed, but was always awaken with the ringing of the phone. His ability to think clearly began to fade as exhaustion overtook him. He was living in a kind of limbo world of harsh sensory input that left him whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. Roger’s world was dark and silent, the silence broken only by the feared phone ringing and the sound of his own muffled cries. So this was what it was like to go insane, a part of his mind told him…

 

* * *

 

 John reappeared at some time – he had no idea when. His thought patterns were making no sense. The tape holding the earmuffs was cut away and the protectors were removed. The rope was untied from his neck and ankles and the latter were released. Finally, for the first time, the tape was removed from his mouth and the rubber helmet was pulled from his head.

Following the hours of darkness and silence, and considering his state of sleep deprivation, it seemed as though he was overwhelmed by senses all at once. Now Roger could hear the squeak of the plastic on the bed, the shuffle of his captor’s shoes on the concrete floor. His mouth was dry and his lips felt swollen and puffy. He could smell the stale odour of perspiration on his body and knew he must look like a total wreck. For a while he just lay there, oblivious to the uncomfortable intrusion of the padlock under his left side. He did not want to open his eyes, he just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to be left alone. He would have given anything for a few hours sleep. He finally opened his eyes to bright overhead lights and finally looked at this person who had done these things to him.

John pulled his legs off the bed and forced Roger to sit up. He stared at him. He had long brown hair that reached his shoulder and surprisingly boyish feature on his face. His face was unlined such that it made his age hard to establish. He could have been anywhere between late twenties to possibly thirty. His eyes were a kind of steely greyish green colour and they scared Roger with their coldness that pierced right through his soul. The thin lips smiled at him, but there was no warmth in the expression.

John was tall and slim, dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt. Despite his slender frame, there was a feeling of strength that came out of it.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Roger croaked.

“I think you know very well, Roger. At least as far as the immediate future is concerned. Did you solve the riddle I asked you to?”

“What?” For a moment, Roger completely forgot about the riddle John had given him.

He shook Roger by the shoulders. “Come on, now, Roger. Pay attention. I asked you what furniture vans, used car salesmen, ATM’s and real estate all had in common. Well?”

“I don’t know,” Roger said tiredly. “Look, please let me go. What do you want with me? You can’t hold me to ransom – I’m not rich… I have no rich parents… I don’t understand why you’re doing this…”

“Ah, but you will, Roger.” John’s voice was suddenly enthusiastic, as though trying to convert him to a new religion. “Shortly you’ll understand everything. But first you’ll need to be inducted, as I call it. You will learn the answer to the riddle. I’m sorry you couldn’t manage it - I had expected a bit more imagination from you. I told you what was going to happen to you, didn’t I? It was no joke, believe me.”

“Please don’t hurt me…” Roger said, the tears starting to flow freely for the first time since he had had his sight restored. “I’ll do anything you want, really.”

“Indeed you will, my little slave, but it won’t be just the words you’re offering now. The offer will be made with your whole body and soul. It will be made without thinking, without looking for something in return, without a thought. It will be instinctive, reactive, unconditional. That is why you must be made to suffer first.”

Something snapped in Roger at that moment. He doesn’t know if it was fear or what, but he swung his still taped arms at John sufficiently to knock him off balance from where he squatted in front of him and lunged towards the door, only to be brought up with a sudden jerk by the cord still attached to his waist. The abrupt pull made Roger stagger and John caught him by the arm, hauling him roughly back to the bed and throwing him face down.

“You see, Roger? You promise all manner of things, but beneath you’re like any liars I’ve met – lying, conniving, plotting your own agenda.” John’s voice was steely and ruthless and scared the hell out of him. Amidst his tears, Roger tried to turn and face John but he was straddled across his body, his secured wrists pinned against his chest underneath him. Roger squirmed and began screaming – nothing really coherent save every foul invective he could think of. His mind was not thinking clearly and it probably wasn’t surprising when a red rubber ball on a strap was worked into his mouth, stopping his abuse mid-stream. John buckled the leather strap excruciatingly tightly behind his neck, locking his jaw in a wide-open position with the rubber smothering his tongue and rendering his complaints into a series of nasal moans.

“Not a smart move, Roger. This is why I've got to punish you – to show you once and for all who is in charge here – to leave you in absolutely no doubt.”

Roger's show of rebellion died as quickly as it had surfaced and he was sniffing and snuffling into the gag in a most undignified manner. He tried to wipe his face with the taped steeple that was his hands, but it was pretty ineffective. Roger could only lie there as John pulled a spreader bar from under the bed and fastened wide, heavy leather cuffs around his ankles which were locked to the bar. It held his ankles perhaps 80 centimetres apart – not so extreme as to be uncomfortable, just immobilising.

Then John was on him again and he saw the flash of steel in front of his face. The sight of the wicked-looking knife made him plead and scream into the gag, struggling uselessly against his weight. For a moment Roger thought John was going to cut his throat when he pulled his head back by his plait. He let forth as loud a wail as he could through his nose but it didn’t amount to much. Then came the tearing as the steel slid smoothly through the cotton of his pyjamas and a minute later, the last of the material was pulled away from his naked body.

John stayed sitting in the small of his back and made Roger put out his hands in front of him. The knife took care of the tape around his hands, letting him again have the freedom to wriggle his fingers. Then the rope too was removed from his wrists, but only long enough for John to pull them behind him and bind them palm-to-palm. Oh sure, Roger tried to struggle in that brief instant, but with John’s weight on his back and his legs braced apart by the spreader bar, he really couldn’t manage it. And the gag, too – this terrible ball that stretched his jaws and stifled his tongue – had a psychological effect that he had not counted on when it came to any form of resistance.

With Roger properly secured, he felt the locks removed from the hip positions on his belt which still remained in place. Next to be removed were the cable trailing from the implants from his rectum, followed by the invader itself along with the cock cage and waist straps. The removal of the vibrator left him feeling strangely empty and left him clenching his cheeks during the process. He did so desperately, petrified of disgracing himself and bringing further punishment upon himself. John extracted the vibrator far from gently, and the brief flash of pain made Roger close his eyes and groan beneath the ball in his mouth.

 John hauled Roger back onto his unsteady feet then made him kneel awkwardly on a rug, finally laying him down on his back. This being done, John dragged him across the concrete floor to the middle of the room, his legs spread wide. He just lay there while John loosed some sort of pulley from what he saw were many such attachments mounted on the various exposed joists above.

It was Roger’s first chance to view his prison with his ocean-blue eyes, and it scared him profoundly. The walls were of grey concrete block save for the one entry door, while the exposed joists were lined in between with what looked like plywood – presumably as some sort of sound proofing. At intervals along various beams were big eye bolts or pulleys with ropes through them, neatly tied off out of the way. He saw the bed, with its iron frame bolted to the floor and plastic covered mattress. About a metre and a half in front of the bed was the steel post to which he had been previously secured, which obviously a part of the house supports. To the left of the bed was the toilet, then a shower in the corner. Momentarily the thought of a shower gave him hope – of exactly what, Roger is not sure – maybe some sort of easing of his restraints and the delivery of a minimal comforting experience such as a hot shower. Then it dawned on him that it also meant a long-term stay in this God forsaken place. Nearby to the post was the chair to which he had first been secured, again bolted to the floor.

Roger watched with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as his captor, the slim figure of John pulled down a thin steel cable from a roof-mounted chain block. John attached a loose chain to the ends of his spreader bar then locked the end of the cable to the middle of the chain. Roger moaned in protest as he moved to the side of the room and began to turn a handle attached to a winch. There was a rapid clicking sound as the winch ratchet clacked over the toothed wheel and the cable began to tighten, lifting the bar and his feet off the floor. Roger spluttered through the gag but it made not the slightest difference to his focussed look as he watched the lower half of his body rise off the floor. He bent at the waist, but the raising continued and shortly he had only his shoulders and the back of his head in contact with the ground.

At this point, John stopped his winding and came to stand over Roger. He felt intensely vulnerable – possibly more so than at any stage to date. Up until that time he had at least had his pyjamas to cover his modesty. This was now gone, along with inserts, straps, ropes and tape that had protected his private parts. Now he was fully exposed, his legs secured wide apart and his limp cock hanging to one side, unprotected.

John stood looking down at Roger for a few seconds, then stooped and grasped his plait and pulled his head clear off the floor. He chewed on the rubber ball, trying to grit his teeth with the pain, but it was not as bad as he had expected. John pulled Roger horizontally then spun him about the axis of his body so that suddenly he was facing the floor, his head held by his plait only a hand span above the concrete. He lowered Roger again and he found himself awkwardly positioned with his cheek pressed against the cold floor while John fiddled with his bound wrists. All of a sudden they, too, were going up in the air, almost straight above him. At once the strain came on to his arms like a strappado, except that it was not quite so acute an angle. Nevertheless it was taking part of Roger’s bodyweight and he mewed in discomfort as the strain came on his arms and his head and shoulders were lifted from the floor.

John continued to pull his victim’s arms upwards until he was about waist height off the floor. He was now rapidly becoming really scared – terrified at his vulnerability but also at the potential for something to break and for him to smash his head on the concrete. Roger struggled the little he could and pleaded through the gag as his body bent into a sort of suspended half-hogtie, half-strappado. John’s response was to grab his plait and complete the job, pulling his head back and securing his hair to a further unseen rope hanging from above. John gave him a push so he swung from side to side. He moaned in fear from beneath the gag.

John paced slowly around where Roger hung, as though studying his tautly strung body. At one stage, his captor stopped beside him and let his hand slide smoothly down the inside of his thigh and rove through the patch of blonde hair in his crotch. Roger struggled the little he could, given his situation. John’s hand slid under his stomach and up to the place where Roger’s nipples hung free beneath him, defenceless. Roger could not see John, since he was outside his vision range forced on him by the way his head was held fast. The fingers stroked his nipples and he felt them harden alongside with his stupid cock. He hated the way they did that. John squeezed one, then the other between his fingertips, the nails biting into them. Roger moaned and squirmed feebly. Then the fingers were roving back below his waist and jerked his hardened member.

“You’re hard, you little slut,” John said, amused. Roger could not believe it, nor could he make out the tone of his voice. John was in front of him now, walking across to the cabinet screwed to the wall. It had two doors and was the height of a person by about a metre wide. He unlocked it and swung open the doors to display the contents.

“Nice little arsenal, don’t you think, Roger?” Why did these people insist on calling their tools an ‘arsenal’? he wondered illogically. Then the truth of what he was looking at hit home. There were all manner of whips, canes, leather implements, dildoes, gags, harnesses, plugs, clips and so on hung up or piled on the shelves within the cabinet. He widened his eyes in fear as he saw John selected a whippy-looking riding crop – the kind with the little flap on the end. The tall man bent it through a hundred and eighty degrees and let it spring back before turning to Roger with a cold look in his eyes. John walked purposefully across the floor before disappearing beyond Roger’s peripheral vision. Then he stopped, as did his heart. Time seemed to freeze for a moment before the first stroke fell across his right buttock.

“Nnnnmmnghh!” Roger screamed into the ball filling his mouth. He squirmed and struggled within his ropes but ended up merely swaying from side to side. Crack! Across the left buttock! “Nnnnnnmmmnghh!” again. Three times more against each cheek. Roger wailed in misery, his tongue trapped beneath the rubber. But this was just the warm up – and that was just starting. The tip of the crop caught first one nipple then the other, as he jerked and cried. Then John was between his legs, massaging and probing in an action that suddenly stirred a multitude of unexpected feelings. Roger tried to resist the rush of blood between his legs that made his cock hard when abruptly the warmth turned to fire as the crop caught first his rear passage and then squarely across his cock.

Roger went berserk as best he could within his confines writhing and screaming incoherently into the gag, jerking about like a puppet. This was the pattern for the next half hour, at the end of which he hung limply, the sweat streaming from his body, a high continuous keening coming from behind the rubber embedded deeply in his mouth that silenced all coherent pleadings and cries for mercy.

 

* * *

 

The bound man lost count of the floggings he received that day. He was hung by the wrists, by the ankles or bent over a wide belt like a swing, his wrists chained to his ankles. All the while he remained gagged, his muted pleading stifled by all manner of devious mouth-filling devices. John used weights on his nipples and on the cheek of his arsehole. Roger knew at that point he was going to die.

He thought the end would never come – either when every inch of his body had received its final beating, or when loss of consciousness would finally overtake him. The latter never happened, despite the agonies of the flesh he underwent. John at last lowered him from his suspension of that moment and hauled him to the shower.

His gag was removed and Roger was left lying on the tiles in the glass box, his aching wrists manacled behind him while cold water sluiced over his body. Every pore seemed to cry out and he lay groaning and crying for a long time before Roger realised John had left the room. With difficulty, he staggered to his feet and turned the water off before stumbling out of the shower. There was no towel or anything else to dry himself against. He finally collapsed on the bed, all cried out, but making a throaty keening sound that he was barely conscious of. He closed his eyes and curled into a foetal position, wishing the nightmare would end. Roger was trembling from the cold, the lack of sleep and lack of food. John had made him drink several times during the torture session, but his body was starting to retreat within itself as the temperature began to drop.

He couldn’t stop shaking; his teeth chattered and he found that despite his exhaustion he could not fall asleep. He had no idea if it was midday or midnight. When John returned maybe an hour later with some bread and water, Roger was still trembling.

John sat him up on the bed. Roger cringed in fear from him. John held his face a hand span in front of him. Roger could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath as he spoke. His voice was serious and intense.

“Do you now see what I have the power to do to you, Roger?” John’s voice was almost kind in his explanation, as though trying to get through to a pet that did not comprehend what it had done wrong. “Do you understand that I can leave you suspended day and night, or starve you until you faint with hunger? Well?”

“Y-yes s-sir,” Roger stammered, petrified that another session was about to start.

“Good. Yes, very good. Do you think you have learned your lesson, Rog?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“You will do anything I command, at the risk of another flogging like the one you have had today?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Are you prepared to answer some questions now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. How many bank accounts do you have, Roger?”

“What?” Roger stared at him. The question had come out of left field. He had no idea where John had been heading. His penalty for the response was a slap across the side of the head that made his ears ring.

“How many bank accounts do you have?”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t hit me again!” he cried, cowering like a frightened animal. “I’ve got two – no, three…”

“Details?”

“Uh – a cheque account, a credit card one and a term deposit…”

“Very good, Roger.” He smiled – an expression that stopped short of his eyes. “I knew that, you know. I’ve gone through your records. What I want is your PIN number. What is it?”

“he – uh – 394985…” he gabled without thinking. Not – given the time to react logically – that he would have done anything else under the circumstances.

“Ex-cellent, Roger.” John seemed genuinely pleased. He retrieved a notebook from his back pocket and wrote the number down, while Roger hung his head and the tears again rolled down his cheeks.

“Have you figured out the riddle yet, Roger? Real estate and used cars and ATM’s? I am going to be kind to you just this once. I’m going to tell you the answer. What all these things have in common is that they all relate to your possessions. You remember we have discussed these things by mail? You’ll be surprised how much I know about you. To cut a longer story short, what is going to happen to you, my pet, is that you are going to disappear – to vanish. I am going to sell off your house, your car, your furniture, all your possessions, and then clean out your bank account. You will cease to exist as a person.” John paused to let the word of what he was saying sank in. “You will have nothing whatsoever in this world. No money, no clothes, no credit cards, no identification. You will be certified dead and buried.”

Roger felt a cold knot in the pit of his stomach and stared at him in disbelief.

“And you may even get to experience that as well. I just haven’t decided yet…” John smirked, patting Roger’s cheek almost lovingly before getting up and once again leaving Roger alone by himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, my fellow Queen lovers, how are you today? :D  
> I’ve decided to post this chapter earlier before I go out of town, so please, enjoy! I’m craving for your comments and kudos, leave ‘em here as an offering to this she-devil of an author ;) bye for now *poofing away* - V.


	8. Roger Taylor, Deceased?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger found out what John's plan was

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 8 - Roger Taylor, Deceased?**

 

Roger had many hours from that point to reflect on his circumstances. John left him alone again, this time standing, his hands at the level of his mouth, his wrists cuffed and locked together and attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. A spreader bar spread his ankles apart.

By comparison with the extremes he had recently experienced, this position was mild. Roger was neither blindfolded nor gagged, and to add his torture, John hung a small basket of food in front of him, perhaps a metre away at shoulder height. In it were some bread and fruit and a bottle of water. Of course nothing was easy where John was concerned. He left Roger there, having shown him the contents, turning the lights out as he exited.

Roger was desperately hungry, but couldn’t reach the basket with his bound hands. The only thing he could eventually do was back towards it and start the basket swinging using his head or shoulders. In the darkness the basket swung randomly, hitting him unexpectedly a number of times before he could finally catch it with his hands. What with the arc of the swing and the arc in which Roger could move his hands, the basket was around head height when he captured it. Removing and consuming the contents took perhaps an hour, so scared was he of dropping some food and wasting the potential nutrition. He had to let go of the basket a number of times in order to eat a piece of fruit with both hands or to drink some of the water.

For a while this immediate distraction occupied his thoughts until eventually the basket was empty and Roger stood there in the darkness. His thoughts turned to John's words and what he was faced with, and Roger saw the methodology in his plan. It terrified him, even though he did not know the details. It also angered him, and for that spur Roger was grateful. John’s audacity in the taking and disposing of his house, his car and all his possessions brought Roger back from the pain that still left his body sore and aching from the beating he had received. He was overwhelmed by a mixture of despair and outrage that this was happening to him. The fact of his immediate predicament and the beating Roger had suffered somehow took on a lesser importance than the violation of his house and possessions. How dare he!

But as the hours passed, the effect of Roger’s punishment caught up with him. His flesh was sore all over, striped and striated as it was from the lash and the cane. Roger had been weakened by the lack of sleep and the tortuous positions into which he had been suspended, and now the subtlety of his present stance began to take its toll as his legs slowly began to tremble, forced as they were into a rigid triangle by the spreader bar. He was able to bend at the knees somewhat to ease the stance, but Roger could only lower himself as far as the suspension chain holding his wrists would let him, which was not enough to actually kneel. Hanging on the chain itself was not at all pleasant.

Roger wondered how John was going to sell off his possessions. Roger couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen to him. Countless black and depressing thoughts floated through his increasingly disoriented brain. At some stage Roger must have fallen asleep on his feet then fallen forward, jerking himself awake on his chains. He moaned in pain. The aches through his body had magnified and the pain in his legs was becoming unbearable as he desperately flexed them as much as he could. The heat must have been turned up again, for Roger sweated as he strained. The food was all gone and he had drunk the water. Roger was not thinking at all straight and began to hallucinate on the verge of consciousness, as if he had a virus. Roger was groaning and talking to himself by the time John returned. His leg muscles were screaming for release and he collapsed in a tear-stained mess as the lights were switched on and eventually his ankles were freed from the terrible bar, and his still-cuffed wrists were unlocked from the overhead chain.

John looked down on Roger as he lay sobbing on the cold concrete.

“I have something I want you to sign,” the long-haired kidnapper told Roger brusquely. “Come on – on your feet.” John, with his slightly-muscular arms hauled Roger up by the arm and across to the chair bolted to the floor. On it was some sort of document comprising several sheets of typing. John made Roger kneel in front of the chair and thrust a pen into his cuffed right hand. “If you would be so kind as to sign on the proverbial dotted line at the bottom…” It was an order, not a request.

“W-what is it?” Roger stammered, not focussing clearly on the printed words.

The answer to his question was a savage slash across his exposed back with a cat of nine tails that he had not seen John pick up. He screamed at the pain on his already acutely tender and sensitive skin.

“Would you like some more?” John demanded fiercely. Roger shook his head miserably, the heat of the slash burning into his back. He was conscious of John’s arm raised again and he desperately scribbled his signature on the line at the bottom of the page, ahead of the expected blow. It didn’t come. Instead the voice said: “Now put you initials on the next pages on the places marked with a cross.”

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the fearful Roger did as he was ordered. As he signed again on the last page and put down the pen, he saw the words “Power of Attorney” at the top.

“Thanks, Rog – you’ve just given me power of attorney over all your assets. Not that such is really necessary, since officially you will be dead very shortly. It just makes things a bit easier for me.” John chillingly smiled - a self-satisfied expression that send a chill down his spine.

Then John turned and pulled a long envelope from his pocket. “I have another document here.” He opened the end of the envelope and extracted the papers from within. They were of heavy parchment folded once lengthwise, and Roger knew at once they were more legal papers. John placed them on the chair beside Roger. “Sign at the pencilled crosses,” he ordered.

Roger stared at the words ‘Last Will and Testament’ in heavy gothic print across the top. He could not believe this. Two brutal slashes with the cat across his shoulder blades made the point and he struggled, weeping, to make a legible signature where the pencilled crosses indicated. His tears made it hard to read the writing – not that he had time – and stained the paper where they fell.

In a minute it was all over and John hauled Roger to his feet again by his plait, dragging hs squealing and protesting form back to the bed. With a few deft moves John had Roger’s hands cuffed behind him and cuffed his ankles together. He turned and stalked off towards the door, collecting the papers on the way. He paused in the doorway.

“Your food is by the door here,” John said. “Make it last. I may be out for some time…” With that the lights went out and the door slammed with a deathly clang, followed by the solid click of the well-oiled lock. Distantly Roger thought he heard the sound of a car door and an engine start, but so effective was the soundproofing that he was not even sure of that.

‘What had I done? I had given this bastard power of attorney…’ Roger thought dejectedly. John could now sell off all his possessions – his house, his car – everything Roger owned… The picture now became graphically clear – or so Roger thought. But his mind was not working properly. Even though he was bound hand and foot, the fact that his restraints were locked with leather cuffs made it slightly less stringent and Roger was at very least feeling grateful for this small mercy. He did not understand what John meant by being gone for some time and he didn’t care. Roger was simply so tired physically and emotionally that he merely wanted to curl up and die. He lay on the plastic-covered bed and eventually fell asleep. He was all cried out and his body could not sustain the stress any longer. Silently praying to whoever deity above there, Roger was past caring what was happening beyond this room, beyond his own torment-filled world.

* * *

Opening his eyes, Roger had no idea how long he slept or how long John was gone. At one stage he awoke and used the toilet and the shower, albeit in the dark and from a sitting position. His mind was now sufficiently compos mentis to realise that there was in fact a hot tap in the shower – but also that there was no water in it. Roger found the food in a basket by the door and dragged it laboriously back to the bed, the only place he could sit that didn’t chill him. The room temperature appeared reasonably even now, and Roger suspected that John was not home or had no need to play mind games with him to quite the same extent.

Roger was ravenous and very thirsty. He had not realised how dehydrated he had become. This time, however, there was no water in a bottle for him. His only option was to drink from the shower, and Roger thus ended up getting a wash whether he wanted it or not. The food comprised more bread and fruit. He ate some – not without difficulty with his hands cuffed behind him and in the absolute darkness that was his prison - and slept some more.

In his waking moments Roger cursed himself for having given in so easily to his demand, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he could not have resisted. The thought of another beating and more sleep deprivation was enough to convince himself that Roger would have given in at some stage anyway. The longer he tried to resist the more pain he would have had to endure, and to what end? John would ultimately get his way in the end. John knew Roger had no choice but to make it as quick and minimally damaging to him as he could. Nevertheless as Roger lay in the darkness, he steeled himself to be strong and he resolved that somehow he would get his revenge on this scumbag.

* * *

It was at least a day later when John returned. Roger had realised the fact that he could at least tell one day from the previous by the fact that the tall guy changed his clothes – like any human being. Roger began to look for patterns in his clothing and over time he started to work out patterns, but that was not for a couple of weeks. In regard of his observation, Roger noticed that John was casual without being slovenly, but at an early stage he began to spot the change of business shirt that identified one day from the next.

John’s reappearance in this instance was welcomed if only to have his wrists released from behind his back. While they had not been tightly bound, Roger was unused to such restraint for such a period and his shoulders and arms ached from the restriction they had endured. That was over and above all the raw and tender areas of his skin that had suffered from the lash and the cane. It was almost a relief to find himself stretched tautly into a Y-shape with his wrists pulled high on two separate ropes towards the rafters. He was standing on tiptoes, his ankles still cuffed, and John had strapped another of his favourite ball gags into Roger’s mouth, before undoing the plait in his hair. Roger wondered what he was up to – the mere contemplation of which filled him with dread.

But John seemed to be in a good mood. He was dressed in this instance in a suit – the first time Roger had seen him attired this way. His long hair was combed and laid out nicely; and he looked quite presentable, in a vaguely rockstar way. Roger wondered what was going on as he teetered there, trying not to put too much weight on his arms and not being very successful. John sat down on the chair and watched Roger with his steely grey eyes for a minute.

“Do you know where I’ve been today, Roger?” Roger shook his head, wondering where this was going. “I’ve been and talked to your partners – you know, Tim, Jim, and what’s her name again? Oh right - Dominique.”

What? What was John doing?

“Yes, I thought that would get your attention. They were very upset when I told them about you. I suppose I should tell you the story as well.” John chuckled, then his expression turned grave. “You see, I work for Queen and Co. We are solicitors who often have to deal with deaths and all the complications that these entail.” He stood up and began to pace slowly up and down the room, talking as though to someone other than Roger.

“As you know, Mr Roger Meddows Taylor was scheduled to attend a conference in Seattle, with a few days in Los Angeles first. It was in LA that the accident occurred and he was killed instantly by a hit and run driver near his hotel in Anaheim. Terrible thing – terrible…” John shook his head as though hardly able to believe what he was saying. “I have been notified by the local police who were advised by the LA police. I should explain that I am executor for Mr Taylor’s will and I hold power of attorney over his assets. I haven’t known him long – only six months or so, since I looked after the purchase of his house – but I found him a most likeable person. I’m sure this must come as a terrible shock to you – as it did to me – at an age when we really don’t think about death. I have to offer my deepest sympathy to you, who have worked with Roger.

“It is always difficult at times like this to grasp the realities of such a situation as this, but there are the inevitable formalities that will have to be dealt with…” John stopped his soliloquy and stared at the floor, as though struggling to contain his grief.

Then he looked at Roger and grinned. “Oh - and your back-pay and other earnings will go into the Queens and Co’s Account by the end of the week by the way,” John said triumphantly.

Roger stared at him, couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

“Nnnnnnnuhh!” He wailed into the gag, shaking his head and feeling utter despair overwhelm him at the thought of his colleagues taken in and conned by this arsehole. He wept with frustration at the pain and helplessness that came crashing down on him like a tidal wave. Roger think it was at that moment that he realised John had a plan that he intended to carry through, and that nothing was beyond him.

“Oh right, Roger. They have my number if they need to contact me. I told them I was based in London since I had helped you down there first – which was where we had met. I had made the flight up here to clear up your affairs as best as I could in a limited time. Wheels are in motion, Rog. The wheel is rolling and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. You should also know –” John stopped as there was a muffled ringing sound of a phone, as though on cue. “I wonder who this will be?” John murmured with half to himself, a smug tone to his voice. He left the room for a while while Roger was contemplating all sorts of plan to murder John in his raging mind. Not a minute later, John was back in the room.

“Another little part of the jigsaw, my dear pet.” John walked across and stood in front of Roger, smiling. “That was the nice used car salesman, who will give me a very good price for your little Alfa Romeo. You have looked after it well and it shows. Aren’t you pleased?”

Roger guessed he just lost it at that point. His frustration and despair turned to momentary, unthinking anger, and he wanted to lash out at this man. Unfortunately the only parts of his body he could move were his legs, though they were still cuffed at the ankles. Roger said unfortunately, because he was not really thinking what he was doing, nor what the consequences might be. Instinctively he pulled on the ropes holding his arms and jack-knifed his legs at Roger. He was standing perhaps two paces away, and though Roger caught him off guard and gave him a soft kick in the stomach, John simply laughed at Roger while he could only muffle his scream at John in gagged fury and swung impotently from the ropes, his toes scraping the floor.

“Tsk, Roger,” John said, tutting the way one would to a recalcitrant child. “You need to have a reality check, love. Point one, this is going to happen. There is nothing you can do to prevent it. You car will be sold this afternoon. Your salary is already taken care of. I have spoken to an estate agent and an auction company, and very soon your possessions will be sold off as a deceased estate, followed thereafter by your house. It is all going as per plan, and will continue to do so. Your trying to kick me will achieve nothing, except to demonstrate to me that I have not yet succeeded in properly training you. You should know by now that disobedience gets punished in this room.”

John walked over to the cabinet, opened it, then paused, deciding which implement to use. Roger’s stomach turned over as he selected a riding crop. It was bound in leather with a pointed leather flap at the end. John was smiling as he came back to Roger, slapping the device meaningfully against his leg. He shook his head in fear, pleading ‘no’ as best he could beneath the rubber ball that was silencing his tongue. The sound came out as a nasal whine.

“Oh yes, Rog. You must remain accountable for your actions. What you did was unforgivable. A slave does not attack his master. A slave must understand unconditional obedience – clearly a point I have not demonstrated adequately. So not only have you carried out this unspeakable act, you have implied that I am a poor teacher, unable to properly get my ideas into your pretty head. My methods are obviously insufficiently motivating…” John again smiled at Roger – an expression that made him tremble. Roger was crying again, snuffling and making unintelligible animal noises that would have begged forgiveness if they could have been understood. He briefly wondered if the actual pain he was about to experience could be worse than the terror he felt looking at the crop in John’s hand. Roger tried to back away, but the ropes on his wrists left little room for movement.

John circled him, drawing on his fear and laughing at the way his body shook in anticipation of the bite of the crop. Except that when the stroke came, Roger was in no way really prepared for it. John caught him three times in quick succession across the buttocks while Roger yowled into his gag and strained forward in a futile attempt to distance himself from the evil weapon. Then John was round the front and Roger’s nipples took two strokes each. He was now on the verge of hyperventilating, drawing ragged gasps through his nose, in between trying to make as much noise as possible. When John stopped in front of Roger and slowly drew the crop up between his legs, he froze in horror.

“Nnnnn! Nnnn! Nnnn!” Roger pleaded desperately, shaking his head and trying to convey his message through his own tears. John’s expression was detached and clinical, as one might have in dissecting an insect for research. The crop was momentarily replaced by his hand stroking Roger’s flaccid cock as though preparing it for attack. When the blow came, he nearly fainted from the pain, going berserk in his bonds. He screamed into the gag and tried to go foetal by lifting up his legs even though he was suspended from the ceiling.

The remainder of the beating was agonizingly slow. Roger thought it would never end, and when John finally attached another cord to his ankles and pulled his feet backwards from under him, Roger thought John had finally finished as he wound up stretched out nearly horizontal, staring at the concrete floor. His blonde hair, now loose, was damp and straggly, hanging below him. On the floor was a pool of dampness that was partly sweat and partly drool from his efforts to cry out around the rubber ball wedged snugly behind his teeth.

Roger could not see what was happening behind him, other than the pair of feet standing beyond his own. When the slash fell across his soles, he jerked and struggled like a puppet, but to no result. His feet received a series of such strokes as Roger cried and wailed and the tears dropped in a puddle beneath him. The beating of his feet was almost the final act of his torturer for the session. His parting gift was something he could obviously savour and think about in John’s absence – a clothes peg on each of his nipples, all connected with string on which a lead ball the size of a ping pong ball was suspended.

Roger was keening continuously with the pain by this time and barely understood him as John squatted casually beside his head.

“Do we think we have learned our lesson now, Roger?” The blonde moaned and nodded in his misery. “We are prepared to remain obedient and to not act impetuously?” More nodding and piteous whining. “Good. I think by the time I come back, you will have fully understood what it will take to save yourself this unnecessary inconvenience. I shall be gone for several hours. I have a car to deliver and will then need to visit the bank. I’m sure you understand that I’m a busy man…”

Roger barely heard the closing of the door over his own desolate sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Roger, I would be crazy if I were in his position *screaming internally*. John is so evil here oh Gosh :(  
> What do you think, fellas? Leave your thoughts and kudos below or John over there (yes, he's standing right next to you) is ready with his cane *smirk evilly* Mwahahahahaha....... toodles! xxx - V


	9. You Blow My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continued to torture his poor, helpless victim.

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 9 - You Blow My Head  
**

 

* * *

 

John was exactly right in that whatever secret agendas Roger might have, he knew they would have to stay secret. Which meant absolute obedience was a must. Roger came to that conclusion very quickly as the pain in the various parts of his body went on and on. The load on his wrists stretched his arms and after the first hour made his shoulders seem like they were about to be torn apart at the sockets. Roger’s neck ached with the need to constantly lift his head so as to keep his nose clear of the drool that leaked around the rubber ball, and to allow passage for the tears that regularly rolled down his cheeks. His ankles likewise bore the burden of his weight, but the pain there subsided into something relatively bearable compared to the fire that burned in the soles of his feet.

But these limb torments were as nothing to the one that pulled at Roger’s poor nipples and his balls due to the terrible lead ball supported by all of these horrible clamps. Roger could see the instrument of his torture hanging beneath his stomach, whenever he let his head drop – a reminder from John of the folly of disobeying the person who held such power over his life.

Roger alternated his tears with a whimpering keening sound, eventually focusing on a spot on the concrete floor such that the pain began to recede. Whether this was real or not he doesn’t know. The poor slave tried to concentrate on this spot to the exclusion of all other things, to take himself into Subspace where the pain would lessen and his body would cease to be the receptor of such sensations. It was like trying to empty your head of all thoughts - something Roger had always found extremely difficult. This time he think he’d managed it, and he found himself in a strange twilight world where Roger Taylor ceased to exist and his surroundings dissolved into a haze of nebulous shapes and sensations. The silence was broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing, interspersed with snuffling and inhaling as Roger sought to clear his nose. 

Time had stopped, as had his thought processes, when the steel door swung open again and John returned to survey Roger’s form slumped in the suspension ropes in the centre of the room. 

The return of an outside influence brought him back to reality with a physical jolt, much like those strange spasms that one occasionally get when they’re almost asleep. The nature of it brought the pain flooding back and Roger knew he could not return to Subspace again. He cried piteously, moaning and drooling further.

“And how are you now, Roger?” A moaned response. “Have you learned your lesson?” Pathetic nodding of head. John stood beside Roger and stretched out his foot, the toe of his shoe flicking the lead weight hanging half a metre below Roger’s stomach. His moans went up an octave as the renewed pain shot through his tortured nipples and balls. There followed a light touch on the still smarting soles of his feet. Roger jerked and tried to writhe within his bonds but the strain in his extended limbs was too great to do more than shudder.

“I am now 15.000 pounds richer, and your car has a new home,” John said smugly. “Life is good, I think.” Roger made no response. Then the weighted ball was unhooked and Roger momentarily came alive, howling behind the rubber ball wedged in his mouth, as the blood flowed back into his tormented flesh.

John let Roger’s feet down first, but he could barely stand, so painful were they. They remained cuffed and locked together while John unhooked his wrists and cuffed them  together behind him. Roger was light-headed and could make not the slightest resistance as John picked him up in his arms and carried him to the bed, dumping Roger in a heap before removing the gag from his mouth. Then Roger was in darkness again as John left, the door closing with the sound that Roger knew would remain with him in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

 

*   *   *

 

Some hours passed before John returned to feed Roger, this time with some thick stew. It was the first hot food Roger had received since his capture, and he confessed that it tasted pretty good. Roger suspected it was out of a tin, but he wasn’t going to complain as John fed him sitting on the edge of the bed. He was obviously in a good mood. John showed Roger the cheque he had received for the sale of his car to a dealer and chatted boyishly about the sale, but Roger said nothing. He tried not to look at his captor, not trusting himself and terrified of what might happen to him if John misinterpreted his expression or the tone of his voice. 

His dinner over, John stood up and paced the room for a short while.

“The auction of the house is set for next week, Roger. Just thought you might be interested. All reports from the real estate people suggest there is a lot of interest. They’re doing a bit of a publicity blitz. There will be a nice colour photo in the newspapers over the weekend and fliers will be going out. I think we’ll get a good price.” The long-haired master stopped and turned to stare at his slave. “That is, I will get a good price.” He grinned. “There’s no doubt about you, Rog – you’re changing my life – absolutely for the better, I must hasten to explain,” John added with a short laugh. “There is one element of it that we have not yet contemplated, however, have we.”

Roger knew what was coming next.

“We’ve established the parameters of our relationship, Roger. You now know your place in the order of this world – or so I fervently hope. Is that the case?” 

“Yes, sir,” Roger whispered, staring at his feet. 

“I really and truly hope so. I would not want to have the trouble of giving you another beating like this morning… It would be so upsetting for me to think that I’d failed again. Any punishment you have received so far would be a fraction of what you would receive if I had to go through that process again. Do I make myself understood, Roger?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Are we sure?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Good. Lie back on the bed.” 

Roger did as he was commanded, his cuffed wrists trapped under him. John positioned him with his stiff-cuffed feet near the frame at the foot of the bed then wandered across to the cabinet beside the door. From inside the cabinet, John produced several lengths of rope and a roll of silver duct tape. Roger groaned inwardly at this last item, for the recollection of the first hours he had suffered here, bound immovably with the hated tape, was still freshly ingrained in his memory, along with other memories he would never have considered possible.

The cuffs came off his right ankle which was soon taped securely to his right thigh. Roger’s left ankle was bound similarly and he found himself with his knees in the air aware of how vulnerable he was becoming. This was obviously John’s intention, for one length of rope was threaded through behind his right knee and both ends tied to the right side of the bed. Moments later, Roger’s vulnerability was confirmed as the same treatment was meted out to his left leg and he lay there, spread and scared. John’s calloused hands worked the third rope through the wrist cuffs underneath Roger then pulled them hard towards the foot of the bed. With his knees tethered as they were, Roger’s only option was to slide towards the foot of the bed while his legs were pulled in the opposite direction, exposing his hole in a way that left him in no doubt what was going to happen.

John walked to the cabinet again. Roger’s breath was coming faster now, and when he saw that John returned with a paddle and a small bullwhip, Roger began to shake uncontrollably. John stood beside the bed and looked down at him with his steely grey eyes that seemed to penetrate through Roger’s distressed soul. Roger didn’t trust himself to speak, but implored his captor with his ocean blue orbs, which now leaked tears of self-pity. Roger began to sob quietly.

“Now, Roger, you need to understand what is going to happen to you. Life is not all bad if you do your part.” John held up the bullwhip. It had a thick leather-bound handle and a tail perhaps a metre long, wrapped around the handle. He held it in front of Roger’s face. “Lick it! Good boy. Now kiss it!” Roger did so. He could smell the strong smell of leather and sweat. “Now open wide…”

The wrapped handle was abruptly jammed between his teeth. Roger spluttered involuntarily. John’s voice was abruptly slow and cold with his next words. “If you let go of that, I will use it on you. Make no mistake.” 

“We are now going to get to know each other a little better, Roger – in the biblical sense.”

Even though Roger knew it was coming – that it was inevitable – the shock was still there. Despite all the torture and humiliation he had suffered to date, the penetration of his person by objects, the abuse of his hole by whipping and clipping, this was the coup de grace – the fact that Roger got raped by his captor.

Roger closed his eyes at this point, letting the tears run silently from the corners down his temples. The man thought he had mentally prepared himself for this, but he was wrong. Roger had known that John would not stop at financially ruining him. That had obviously been the first priority – striking while the iron was hot. The sexual side had been inevitable, but Roger had subconsciously held on to a slim hope that it might not happen, and now his denial had caught up with him. His experience with Brian in his London dungeon had been exciting and stimulating in all sorts of ways – until the final night. This time the nightmare just continued. Roger considered that his situation could really become no worse, however. He had to accept what was to come as being at least better than a beating. Roger had then resolved to make the situation work for him – to channel his anger and determination into getting even. What this latest outrage did was to up the revenge stakes a notch. One day, the time would come, the opportunity would appear…

A familiar sensation of being stretched was felt by Roger when John scissored his lubed fingers inside Roger, occasionally brushing against his prostate. Roger bit back his moan, he didn’t want to give John the satisfaction of seeing him getting turned on, although his penis was betraying him. Well, at least John had a courtesy to prepare Roger first although this small form of mercy didn’t reassure Roger’s anxiety in the least.

Roger was expecting to feel John enter him but what happened next was a surprise. There was a resounding smack as a paddle caught him squarely across the right cheek. He gasped, nearly letting the whip fall from his mouth. Then a searing pain across the other cheek. Six on each side with the paddle, then a further six on the inside of his thighs with the short-handled flogger. Roger was yowling and crying by this time – the whip in his mouth was nowhere near as effective in silencing him as the ball gag, and was obviously not intended to be. The finale was a trio of strokes vertically down his balls that saw Roger writhing and chewing on the leather handle jammed in his mouth at the terrible pain between his legs.

Roger lay there whimpering as the barrage of blows ceased. He dared not open his eyes for fear of seeing John preparing to unleash some new horror upon him. The unexpectedness of the beating and the pain it had caused had totally driven the thought of sexual penetration from Roger’s mind, and with it the mental preparation for such final ignominy. Roger was still gasping and wishing the pain would go away when John slipped his fingers from Roger and gripped tight his penis like a vice.

“You’re hard, you little slut!” John declared with a triumphant tone, making Roger blushed with embarrassment. “I knew it. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you Roger?”

Roger was startled when John suddenly slid inside him. Roger gathered at once that John was reasonably well endowed, and despite the beating, the tied man was also well lubricated earlier, courtesy of his captor. Roger was momentarily astonished at this – a part of his brain identifying the fact and with it the hardness of his nether region was not expected under such circumstances. In London, Brian had beaten Roger once on the penis – admittedly nothing as painful as this, but certainly enough to get the blood flowing. When he entered Roger that time, it seemed as though every moment had been amplified and the sensations heightened.

This time Roger knew the flogging had been too brutal, that it could not possibly enhance what was to be a trial unwished for. He tried to ignore the stale smell of cigarettes that still clung to John. The smell would stay with him, Roger knew, reminiscent of that first night of terror when he had been blindfolded and captured in his own bedroom. Smell was such a powerful emotion Roger doubted he would ever be able to shake himself free of the disturbing feelings this would conjure up.

Roger was aware that John was now naked – his flesh warm against the tender sweaty surface of his own. John thrust into Roger, but had only done so a few times when Roger suddenly felt a rising tide in his stomach that he could not control. He could not believe what was happening and that he could be as out of control as this. What had John done to him? The heat intensified and a great wave surged within him when John’s fingers suddenly coiled around his member like a snake wrapping around its prey, leaving Roger gurgling and panting through the handle still clenched in his mouth. His eyes were screwed shut as the pleasure tide roared through his limbs and made his brain burst with ecstasy, leaving his hands clenching in their cuffs beneath him and his legs straining to close on the being impaling between them as he released thick semen onto his stomach. 

But it was an incredible sensation of pleasure – a stark, unbelievable contrast to the pain that had so recently swamped his poor body. Despite his principles and his determination to resist, Roger found himself powerless and surrendered his last vestiges of will to the onrush. He was aware that somewhere distantly someone was making a kind of gargling cry that went on and on. 

Eventually it dawned on Roger that he was the one making the noise, as he slowly came back to earth. John had briefly paused to let the climax take hold, but was clearly far from done himself. He hammered away at Roger’s overstimulated prostate for another fifteen minutes, and again, despite his best intentions, Roger lost a further battle, this time of a lesser severity, but again he came weakly, his penis spluttering another shot of semen, followed by John himself as he finally climaxed and released his load inside Roger’s hole. It left them both panting and soaked in perspiration. All thought of the beating was now lost from Roger’s mind, which had gone beyond logic by this stage. Roger was exhausted from the sustained suspension, the beatings and the climactic attention he had just received. Not to forget the trickling warm liquid of John’s that was now leaking out from his hole as the cold-hearted Dom pulled out from Roger with quite a force that once again made him moan from the sensation. Roger just wanted to collapse now, to roll into a little ball and send the world away for a long time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darling readers, how have you been? Sorry for the lack of update for these past 2 weeks as I've been recuperating from something. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Leave me your thoughts after you've finished reading this one. Ta-ta - V


	10. A Night by the Television

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John had sold all of Roger's possessions, he decided to give Roger some presents. But things were never so simple where John was concerned.

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 10 – A Night by the Television**

 

Roger guess that day marked a watershed in his captivity. It was the first of many times in which he was used by John for his personal pleasure. Invariably in each of these instances he was bound in a helpless and exposed position – something John delighted in doing, not least because any so-called foreplay usually consisted of a flogging for yours truly. Roger was unable to resist, and usually unable to protest.

It was a watershed in that he came to the unavoidable, unexpected and somewhat difficult-to-accept conclusion that the flogging actually served to enhance the arousal of the sex. Roger discovered that the mixture of pain and pleasure took him to new heights which he had neither experienced nor expected. Roger was bewildered by this, since he still loathed John and what he was doing to him. The conflict in his own mind left Roger became more confused and – he reluctantly admit – less determined in his resolve to overcome his predicament no matter what. There were issues of sexuality which had not been expected or even known to exist, and which he had no avenue for discussion with anyone.

Depression closed in on Roger and for a time, things got worse. The Stockholm Syndrome, where hostages make friends with their captors, seemed a possibility for a while, although the appearance of John always left the captive man uncertain because of John’s unpredictability. Roger could be bound in a stringent position and receive a beating, which might or might not be followed by intercourse. Or Roger might simply be left there, with no explanation. He admittedly half-looked forward to John’s visits, however, if only for a break in the routine, for the boredom was getting to him. In a way this was the worst aspect of Roger’s captivity.

Once or twice, Roger tried to engage John in conversation, but each time he wound up with weights hanging from his nipples and bound in a terrible position for having disobeyed his code of conduct. All the remainder of the time Roger was kept – at the very least – with his hands cuffed behind him and his ankles cuffed and locked together, leaving no room for escape. 

After perhaps ten days had passed, John entered the room to announce that the auction had taken place and that Roger’s house had sold for 150.000 pounds. Even after the real estate people had had their cut, John would be left with a healthy profit. The news only served to depress Roger further, as did the announcement that the auction of all his belongings would take place in two days time. 

On this particular visit, John brought with him a cardboard carton, which he put on the floor next to the bed, where his victim sat. 

“I’ve brought you a present, my dear Roger,” John told Roger lightly, caressing his blonde lock in an almost affectionate way. “I do hope you like it. It will make your life a little more comfortable down here, you know, with you being alone and bound most of the time,” John chuckled lightly. Roger could only gaze at him, silently wondering what other wickedness could John present to him now.

He opened the flaps with a flourish and Roger looked down to see a jumble of stainless steel strips and chains. His heart sank. It was another of John’s devious schemes, he knew, which would inevitably end up with Roger in some awful position that one could not imagine in their wildest dreams.

That said, Roger could not help his interest piquing as John extracted what turned out to be a ‘belt’ from the mess of chains and fastened it around Roger’s waist. It fitted perfectly. It was about four centimetres wide and made in a single piece of stainless steel, perhaps three millimetres thick. By pulling the ends apart he was able to slip it sideways on him then rotate it so that the ends joined over his navel. Here there was a rebate at each end so that they overlapped without any increase in thickness, and through the middle of these overlaps he inserted two rivets, snapping them off with a riveting tool. Roger didn’t know how the belt could then be removed.  On each hip there was a small D-shaped projection through which there was a small ring, about three centimetres in diameter. There were further such D-projections in the centre at back and front, but without the rings. 

 The curious blonde man watched curiously as John then fitted stainless steel cuffs to his ankles. These were hinged, with an inner lining of dense foam that made the cuff fit snugly against his skin. Unlike the belt, these cuffs locked in place with a small padlock on the outside of his leg and had a D-ring on the inside – obviously for hobbling purposes.

 

The same operation took place on his wrists, with the metal cuffs soon locked into place. The last piece of equipment turned out to be a collar. Devoid of lining, it was riveted into place like the waist belt. Like the belt, it had four small D rings on it. Roger didn’t like to consider the possibilities here. Then the thin stainless chains came out, and before he was even free of the leather cuffs, he saw the chains locked on to each ankle cuff, run through the hip rings and then connected to the wrist cuffs. A long length of chain locked to the back of his collar and was then attached to the post in the centre of the room. The leather cuffs then came off and Roger was told to stand. He did so with a rattle of hardware and found his wrists drawn snugly in to the hip rings as he straightened up. That was when Roger realised that to move his hands above his waist, he had to bend his knees somehow, whether it was by raising his leg, or by squatting or kneeling. John was immensely pleased with himself.

“Do you like them?”

“They’re very… pretty… sir,” Roger said at last, didn’t wish to anger John.

“They suit you,” John said. “But Rog, you must remember that everything good has to be earned. These chains offer you so much more freedom, without taking away your basic restraint. You should first understand what can be done with them. Kneel,” John’s steely voice left no room for Roger to argue his captor.

With these ominous words, Roger did as he was commanded, and waited while John locked a few links between his wrist cuffs, then attached this short length of chain to the front D-ring on his collar. The brunette man stepped back to admire his work. 

“Excellent!” John exclaimed, looking down at where Roger knelt, his hands cupped either side of his defenceless slave’s jaw as though he was just resting his head in them. “Remember this position. It’s what happens to slaves who are disobedient.” And with that John turned and departed, leaving a host of thoughts racing through Roger’s mind. 

The most immediate reaction from Roger’s mind was: ‘What freedom of movement did I have?’ He thought initially things might not be too bad, until Roger tried to stand and found himself bent at the waist and knees in a most uncomfortable position. He could walk about the room in this contorted manner, a bit like a chicken strutting its stuff, but not being able to straighten his legs or arms was going to be distinctly unpleasant. Roger found he could only get on to the bed with some difficulty, but at least once there, he could lie on his side or sit cross-legged.

Another, different thought popped into his mind. The fact that John was near to completing his objective in selling off all Roger’s assets could have meant he had no further use for him. Instead, he had just spent what must have been a considerable amount in getting these customised restraints made. This told Roger that he was here for the long term – whatever that might mean. John had mentioned something about a study or experiment when Roger had first arrived, but in his pain and exhaustion and fear, he had not taken it in. Was this part of it?

Roger had been released from the more stringent bondage, and ultimately he surmised he would have more freedom of movement. Would he have enough to somehow overpower John? A lean and tall man that surprisingly has more strength than Roger had thought he could have. He suspected not – not in the present form of restraint, anyhow. Any such attempt would have to be based on the premise that the keys to the chain securing Roger to the post were either on John’s person or in the cabinet. Roger did not want to take the chance of overcoming John and finding that he was still trapped here with the only option being to let his cruel master fetch the key. Somehow that would not work, he reckoned.

The realisation that there was some sort of long term purpose to his captivity had left Roger struggling with mixed emotions. There was relief that such a future existed, but the thought of this captivity stretching out interminably filled him with trepidation and dread – feelings that lay heavily with him over the next day or so. Life in his dungeon did not get any easier, even though his hands were no longer cuffed behind him and his ankles were not joined. Roger could not straighten up and his back and legs began to ache as a result. John delivered food in a bowl on the floor – usually some sort of stew or pasta – designed obviously to make it difficult to eat without the use of his hands except in a very limited way. Roger managed the task kneeling beside the bed with the bowl sitting on the edge. Drinking was still a problem and inevitably, he got wet and cold. Roger found that he could not quite reach the shower taps with his hands in his crouching state, but he could still raise one foot high enough to turn the tap on with his toes. This process was cumbersome and chilling and further depressed his crumbling spirits.

Roger guessed that nearly two days had passed before John came back to release the chains from where they were locked to his collar. He was pathetically grateful for the release, for the restraint had been much harder than he had expected. Although not as stringent as some of the things he had endured, the long time Roger had been forced into the crouch and the unknown duration he was faced with had all taken their toll on him. He became like a pet awaiting its master for the lifting of a punishment that had been imposed for no reason.

 

The release – as usual – did not come without payment, as John stuffed a ball gag in Roger’s soft mouth, roped his elbows to each edge of the bed and gave his buttocks and penis a thorough flogging, before fucking him thoroughly. Roger had discovered in the course of these sessions that John at least wore a condom and used a lube to ease Roger’s pain. Again, this lent credence to his theory that he was to be held for a long time – long enough so that complications like infections or worse illness were to be avoided by all parties. That was some small relief to him, although if he was sick enough to die would have been welcomed if it meant his escape from John’s captivity. But somehow that would have been both unlikely and unexpected, he decided.

After he had satisfied himself, John unlocked Roger’s hands from his collar and he stretched out on the bed, luxuriating inwardly at the relief it gave his muscles. John was grinning again, and Roger knew something else had transpired. 

“Isn’t it amazing what you accumulate over time,” his captor said. “Until you come to insure something, you don’t realise how much money you’ve sunk into material things. I think the same applies to auctions. Of course, Rog, the good thing about your possessions was that they were all so new. You’d bought the house then furnished it really well. No junk for you. That inheritance certainly set you up nicely.” John paused and cupped his hand under Roger’s chin as he knelt on the bed. “Nearly fifteen thousand pounds worth. I think this call for a celebration, don’t you think? I’m feeling extremely magnanimous, baby. I will grant you a favour – a ‘gift’ they said. It must be reasonable, and within my power to grant. As long as you don’t expect something silly like release,” John smirked, obviously sensing the internal struggle within his pet. Roger himself, however, was feeling more depressed by the second as John made his announcement that all of his things were sold to God knows who.

Unbeknownst to John, or maybe he did know but didn’t give a damn, was that some of Roger’s belongings were irreplaceable artefacts from his parents. Some sentimental reminders of what Roger’s life used to be in his childhood. From simple toys, his father’s book collections that had his scribbles here and there, to his mother’s jewelleries that she used to wear if all of them went out to family dinners.

‘Gone. Everything that I’ve ever owned, and this is all my fault for ever trusting this fucking stranger in the first place,’ Roger thought dejectedly. He could feel that a tear had escaped his eyes and running down his cheek.

John, with his head tilted and a pursed lip, purely a fake expression of empathy, raised calloused finger to Roger’s cheek and wiped a shed of tear that escaped his prisoner’s eyes. Oh how Roger wanted to chop that cursed hand and made John taste his suffering right now.

“Now now, what’s with all that teary eyes? I thought you’d be happy that I grant you a wish, Roger. You should show a little bit of gratitude to your master.”

Roger used all of his self-restraint not to lash out at John and attempt a foolish, useless attack against him. He knew perfectly well how this would end, with his restraint making him incapable of really hurting John. Besides, he was not a fool to provoke John’s anger especially in this rare good mood. He realised that the consequences would be direr than he could handle. Instead, he believed that someday, and he didn’t know how or when, that he would get his chance to be free. To spread his clipped wings once more and escaped this cage that he’d been trapped in. John couldn’t know his discomfort. It would only give him a satisfaction to torture him further.

Roger paused for a moment and steeled his heart to please his short-tempered master. “I... I’m so sorry, master John. I was just feeling grateful for your kindness to grant me a gift of my choosing,” he said it with so much conviction that Roger almost believed it himself.

“Hmm, is that so? I don’t know that you can behave this well. I guess all those trainings don’t go to waste, do they?” John chuckled. “Well then, say it now before I change my mind, pet.”

 It was the first real concession Roger had got from John. Was this a sign of an easing of his restrictions? How daring should he be? Roger did not want to upset him by being over ambitious and ending up with nothing – or worse, ending up being punished for being impertinent. 

“Please sir – I’d like something to read. A book? A big book?” 

John smiled at Roger, and for a moment there, it almost seemed to be warmth in his smile. 

“That’s very good, Roger. Very reasonable. Yes, I guess you must be getting a little bored down here. I will see what I can do to alleviate that. Yes, you may have a book, and I will consider the thought behind your request.” 

Then John was gone.

 

*  *  *

 

Roger had established in the meantime that in his relatively unrestrained state, he could nearly reach the door while standing up. Tracing a circle around the post he could almost reach every corner of the room if he laid down and stretched out his legs. Such were the tedious things this poor man occupied his mind with. He could now circle the post continuously as a form of exercise, which at least was a bonus for him. Roger counted how many circuits he did before he got tired, using this as a benchmark to try and maintain some sort of regime.

The book appeared with the next meal. Both were shoved inside the door without John entering the room. Then the door clanged shut and Roger was left standing in the darkness, cursing himself for not stipulating some form of light to read by. Of recent times the light provision had been intermittent – on some sort of timer he suspected, although he found it difficult to detect any pattern without a watch. His sleeping was probably to a pattern although he couldn’t detect one here, either. Roger just slept when he felt like it.

He felt around and picked up the book and the plate of food, retreating to sit on his bed. The book was a paperback, maybe an inch thick. Roger wondered where it had come from. He wondered what John would read…

It seemed like a day before the lights came on again. Roger should have guessed that John would prolong the darkness just to frustrate him. It was like the three wishes given out by the genie, the end result being that they are used thoughtlessly for no net gain by the recipient. John was obviously thinking the same way. On his next visit he asked whether Roger would like the light on for a while, to which he eagerly agreed like a child lured by sweets. He looked at the book and saw it was a Wilbur Smith novel. Roger’s soft heart leapt in anticipation of the simple act of finally being able to read, to escape in his mind from the depressing surroundings of his captivity. 

Perhaps he was too transparent in his expectation, for his captor took equal delight at pulling a soft leather discipline helmet from his pocket and flourishing it in front of his victim. 

“Oh no, sir, please! Let me read…” Roger cried like a child. He could not believe himself and how desperate he had become for some sort of intellectual stimulation to entertain him.

It was a plea he made without thinking – another mistake. Not only was Roger going to get the helmet, but because of his little outburst, he was going to have a gag to go with it. Disconsolately he opened his mouth to let John work a soft rubber ball behind his teeth before the black leather blotted out the light as the laces were pulled tight down the back of his head and the reinforcing straps were locked at the base of his neck.

“I’ll leave the light on, shall I?” John whispered next to Roger’s ear before there was the heavy clang as the door shut.

 

*  *  *

 

It must have been perhaps half a day later when Roger got his sight and speech back. When he finally got to read, however, it was only with his hands now chained together behind his back. With every change of restraint, John was insistently emphasising how dependent Roger was on him, and how little he need do to make Roger’s life uncomfortable in the extreme. Having his cuffs locked with a short chain through the D-ring at the rear of his belt was in many ways more difficult than when he simply had leather cuffs on.

Roger was again unable to fully straighten his legs, although this was not so severe as when his hands had been linked to his collar. This time, however, feeding was really messy, and his hands were not as mobile as the previous position, being secured to the belt. Again, John left him for probably a day like this, but it was a day to blissfully savour the joy or the written word again, to transport himself to another country and the adventures on African shores. 

He sat cross-legged on the bed, the book held open under his feet. Roger tried turning the pages with his toes but usually ended up having to turn right round to use his hands. By this time, he had got used to the belt and the metal cuffs with their foam linings, which turned out to be moderately comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one might be in his situation, that is.

About halfway through the book, John turned up to release his hands from the belt. He was again in a good mood, flourishing a cheque from the sale of the house. 

“I think we need to make things a little more interesting and comfortable for you, Roger. What do you think?” 

“I’d like that, sir.” 

He appeared to be half thinking out loud. “Maybe we should put a television set down here. Yes, that would be good. Is there something else you’d like, maybe?”

Roger really thought at this stage that he was making progress, that his gradual approach was working. “Could I go outside, sir? Just for a while?” Roger didn’t know what his chances were here. He didn’t know what the practicalities were, whether John would even consider it, whether it was realistic, or what it would lead him into, but whatever the difficulties, it had to make for a change from his present condition and the pathway to some chance of escape. He still had no idea what he intended for him in the long term. Roger wondered if he could insinuate himself into doing some housework – something which might also allow him some sort of opportunity to get away.

“Go outside?” John’s response left him uncertain whether it would even be considered, or whether it might cause great offence. Roger seriously felt like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. Here he had just been offered the holy grail of captivity – a television set – and he now wanted to go outside. What was he thinking? “Hmm.. All right, Rog – I’ll think about that one. One thing at a time, don’t you think so?” John smiled at him. Roger didn’t know what was behind those eyes that left him worried as to where it was all leading.

 

*  *  *

 

The TV arrived the next day, by his reckoning. It was one of those ones with an integrated video player, which surprised the ex drummer. John evidently wanted to do the installation with him securely out of action; and his idea in this instance was to have Roger kneeling in the middle of the bed facing the head, while a rope was looped around each chain between his wrist and the hip ring. Pulling these out to each side drew Roger’s ankles hard up to his hips, spreading his legs at the same time, and pulling his wrists out to the sides of the bed. It was extraordinarily simple but very effective. Of course not content with merely securing his limbs, it seemed that Roger was to be fully plugged as well. John opened him up, teasing him as usual that had left Roger panting with a half-hard cock. He was made to bow forward while a large vibrator was inserted. 

It was well-lubed, but still big enough to make Roger gasp and groan as it finally slid home. Neither of these events were strange to him by now. What was different, however, was the semi-circular stainless steel strip which Roger produced at that point, which he realised moments later was a crotch strap. It fitted over the D-rings on the front and back of his belt, snugly holding the devices inside Roger. He quickly concluded there was no way he would be able to extract them past this strap, even with the use of his hands.

John’s last focus was Roger’s head. It was the same soft rubber ball he had experienced under the discipline helmet, this time held in place with numerous turns of silver duct tape around his head over the top of a rubber swim cap. John pulled the tape first horizontally then wrapped it vertically under his chin, finishing with a couple of turns over his eyes. Roger could hear him moving about behind him, getting things out of the cabinet and obviously preparing for what the blonde was sure would be his next ordeal.

Roger had experimented with the crotch strap and the insert, but they were well and truly embedded for the duration of whatever he was now to experience. Moving his anal muscles around them only served to create sensations that Roger did not want to exhibit in front of John.

The cold-hearted master went away for a while, leaving his slave kneeling in his darkened, silent world, his arms pulled out tautly to the sides. It was not the most unpleasant of positions Roger had been in, though he was far from enjoying it. His wriggling about and trying to ease things eventually resulted in his falling forward on his face, bringing his arms down flat on the mattress. It was a better position, easing the strain on his arms and shoulders. Roger may even have dozed in this state until a searing pain bit through his consciousness as a crop smacked across the exposed sole of his right foot, courtesy of John. He screamed beneath the tape as a second blow fell on the left one. Six strokes on each foot were his punishment for departing from the set position, something John told him would not happen for quite a while in the near future.

John undid the ropes on his chains and hauled Roger to his feet, steering him away from the bed until his back was against the dreaded steel post. He was made to kneel, the cold steel pressed against his spine and the back of his thighs, his calves horizontal on either side of the post. John locked the cuffs of his wrists together behind the post, then proceeded to wind more turns of the duct tape around his head and the post, securing the two immovably. This done, the tape and pads over his eyes were removed.

Roger blinked in the light, suddenly discovering that his eyes were the only thing he could move above his shoulders. Even below this point, the fact that his head was fixed rigidly meant any body movement was extremely limited. It was evident that no further bindings would be required for him. John stood up from where he had been squatting in front of Roger, and he saw the television set on a small trolley a little over a metre away. It seemed that watching the telly was not to be an optional activity. It was going to be total focus. Maybe Roger would die by the death of a thousand electron beams, he thought grimly.

John wasted no time on formalities, nor did he suggest how long the program was that his bound slave would be watching. Roger established very quickly that it was a video, however. The good news was that there would be no advertisements. This was also the bad news, for it was good old fashioned, uninterrupted porn on a four-hour tape (as Roger later found out). John switched it on then bent to turn on the vibrator in his arsehole, leaving Roger squirming and panting before he left without a backward glance, turning out the light as he did so. With the television obscuring all other features of the darkened room, and barely able to move a muscle, Roger had little choice but to go along with it. Even shutting his eyes could not exclude the sound effects, and the bastard had evidently turned up the volume, just to make sure he could hear through the layers of tape around his head. 

It was clear John knew what would happen. Roger even knew it himself, in his heart, and no matter how he tried to concentrate on other things, his cock hardened and warm sensations began to spread from his tip as precum started to leak out. And of course what should be the first event on the session but a familiar blonde man that John had sent by mail…how long ago was that? But here he was, as though time meant nothing, still impaled on his pole, the chain stretched over the beam in the castle while the blonde actor approached orgasm in spectacular fashion.

The following scenes did nothing to make life easier for Roger. To say bondage was a theme would be somewhat of an understatement. Bondage was the focus, and he lost track of how many men climaxed in the course of the tape, some with male assistance, some with female help, some with artificial help and some through various painful and contorted circumstances. Somewhere along the way, Roger lost the plot as well. The vibrator drove his prostrate to a point where he couldn’t resist anymore. With little encouragement, Roger was soon gyrating to his own music - as much as he was able, that is. John had thought this one through again, and the fact that Roger could firstly move so little and secondly had nothing to press against left him frustrated for a long time as he struggled to work out how to counter John’s devious methodology. 

 Roger finally managed to get his fingers hooked beneath the crotch strap, between the post and his bottom. It was strained and awkward, but it gave him just enough to pump the butt vibrator in and out, over and over again until he felt a hot pleasure was surging through every fibre of his being. It was again a difficult feat to gain his climax as Roger lost his grip on the strap and struggled vainly against the tape holding his head to the post and stifling his cries. The shudders subsided through his body, leaving his legs trembling in the wake, but there was no letup from the mechanical intruders or the sensory input from the video. The moans from the participants merged with his own as time stretched out and the second of what was obviously going to be a protracted series of orgasms began to slowly work its way to the surface.

Roger lost track of when the video stopped. He was a total mess and covered with his own come. Somewhere in the four hours, the batteries died on the vibrator and Roger exhausted himself struggling firstly trying to achieve orgasm and then to stop the waves that followed. Some men have trouble achieving orgasm, while some he knows appear able to climax merely by squeezing their thighs together. Roger doesn’t know which end of the spectrum is the most desirable, but he knows his own body’s behaviour. While the first climax might take some effort, once he was there, any subsequent climaxes followed like a wheel rolling downhill. This instance proved to be an example where the natural momentum took him away at a speed which kept up with the impetus from the vibrator and the video. He had never experienced anything like this before. Brian had toyed with Roger and had driven him wild, but had always ceased when his exhaustion had shown through.

In this instance, Roger had no choice and there was nobody to release him from this continuity of arousal. The sweat poured off him and he became faint from the exertion. Roger wasn’t sure that his cock could harden again after this exhausting ordeal. The strain on his back and neck from fighting the tape holding his head to the post was there in the background, but was repeatedly swamped by the climactic waves surging from his loins. Roger did not know how much of it he could take, not that he had any control over the matter. At length, his senses seemed to merge, as, with his eyes screwed shut, his own cries and moans behind the tape combined with those on the video tape, and he lost track of which noises were his and which were other protagonists. 

By the time the tape finally clicked to a stop, the battery in the vibrator had run down and Roger hung there in the darkness, his chest heaving and his thighs trembling uncontrollably, his body streaming with sweat. He was moaning and panting, his mind still filled with a myriad of colours and flashes that bore no relation to his predicament or his location. Roger was off in some faraway place where reality and tangibility did not exist. It was a strange subspace planet of noise and smell and sound and indescribable feeling, but devoid of form and life. His head was buzzing and he felt an overwhelming mix of exhaustion, satiation, elation and a sensation of being beyond caring.

When the lights snapped on, he was only dimly aware of John sitting in a chair beyond the television. Roger had no idea how long he had been there watching him, nor did he care anymore. He was wrapped in his own little world and would have fallen face down on the concrete when John cut the tape binding his head to the post, had he not supported Roger’s boneless body. Roger was barely conscious of being carried back to the bed by John’s thin but muscular arms, deposited there and having the remainder of the tape cut away; his semen still sticking all over his chest and lower abdomen. Then the lights were off again, and he could finally drift away to unconsciousness where the nightmare of his reality could be forgotten just for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating on weekend as usual, my lovely Dealorettes! Job has been crazy lately.Hope you enjoy this chapter ;) tell me what you think on this one.


	11. A Glimpse of Light

**Welcome Darkness, My New world**

**Chapter 11 – A Glimpse of Light**

Contrary to Roger’s expectations, John lived up to his word with the television – well, sort of. He was not permitted to see anything direct. John would only let Roger view videos he had recorded himself from free-to-air television. In doing this, Roger either only watched the BBC and ITV, or else that was all he could receive. In fact, he suspected John gave him these programs because there were no advertisements or unexpected newsbreaks that he had to look out for. John was very careful about isolating Roger from any changes in the outside world – a fact which scared him when he thought of the longer term implications. Roger ended up watching period dramas and foreign films, although he was more than content with these little luxuries that John had provided.

What he did not appreciate was the depression that would result when these treats were withheld, for whatever reason. John had begun to create a further, more subtle dependency, a conditioning that Roger found hard to fight. There had been the initial punishment regime, then small carrots which could be withdrawn at any time. John had shortened Roger’s neck chain so that he could not reach the television where John normally put the remote. On one instance, the shoulder-length haired man forgot and left the remote on the bed, enabling Roger to watch the movie twice. His punishment was first a flogging then time in the dark with no book and no television. It made him feel like a six-year old kid as he cried when his little pleasures were taken away.

Roger had no idea how much time passed until the morning came. Roger breezed in and announced that he could go outside. Roger was taken aback and his heart leapt at the prospect. No more had been said about it since he had first tentatively raised the question to John a while ago. But once again, it was not all gain for Roger. As was John’s tradition, he was to be used again for unwilling sex. He could not resist, of course, and Roger did his utmost to conceal any positive reaction to the treatment John meted out. But sometimes this was not easy. The petite drummer had been used in this manner perhaps two dozen or more times since his capture. One more made no difference, but the detrimental effect was lessened each time and he found himself responding more and more. It worried Roger that his body was willing while his mind rejected the concept totally.

This time John made roger kneel in his usual chains under a pulley from which hung a short horizontal steel bar. Roger wound up with the soft rubber ball and the discipline helmet again, which seemed to be almost de rigueur for the fashion-conscious captives in this part of the world. Then the chain links on his wrist cuffs were locked to the bar and Roger felt himself start to go up in the world as John cranked the hand winch. The chains from Roger’s wrists to his ankles tightened as he started to be lifted off the ground. His feet rose up behind his buttocks as the chain slid through the hip links. His wrists were not high – a comfortable height above his head but not stretched out before the chain was taut and his ankles were hard up against his hips. Roger continued rising upward, hanging forwards slightly with his wrists above and behind his head. Then John stopped. It was not an entirely uncomfortable position, with his weight primarily on his ankles but supported by his arms as much as he could.

Roger swung there in his darkened world, wondering how long John would make him stay like that. Without warning, Roger was suddenly spinning and swinging on the pulley rope. It was an unnerving feeling in the darkness beneath the hood. He gripped the bar to which his wrists were chained and held on – not that there was any danger of him getting loose. Roger mmmphed his protest from behind the rubber filling his mouth and held there by the leather of the helmet, but to no avail. Instead, John only chuckled with amusement at Roger’s struggle.

 He began to feel dizzy and had a terrible vision of trying to throw up with his mouth blocked by the ball. That was when Roger was abruptly gripped by strong hands and held still. His head was still reeling as John’s hands began to rove over his body. He was standing behind Roger; his arms encircling Roger’s and playing with his nipples, stroking and tweaking them until his nipples became hard, before pinching and twisting them until Roger cried out through the gag. Then his fingers were down all over his cock and arse, kneading and pumping, occasionally flicked his finger over the slit of Roger’s leaking tip. Roger tried hold back his moan, but it failed as John’s fingers were ferreting their way into his arsehole, scissoring him open and finally put one finger inside Roger, working a spell that he could not fight. Roger squirmed on his chains and his breath became faster and uneven as his body started to give uncontrollable spasms of pleasure. Roger could feel the tension start to build up and he found himself unconsciously trying to thrust against the probing fingers as they undermined all his resolution to be strong and resist such advances.

One hand came between his legs from behind, encircling his cock and pulling it firmly, the other fingers playing a vibrato against his prostate. Roger shuddered as a wave of pleasure slid outwards and a groan escaped from his throat. Somewhere in the centre of his hardened cock, a tidal force was starting to build up and there was nothing Roger could do to prevent it. He was panting now, preparing himself for the onslaught when suddenly the fingers were gone, and instead the hands were gripping him by the thighs.

Roger was pulled backwards, his legs parting against the nakedness of John’s body. Suddenly he penetrated Roger, causing him to cry out with the unexpected pain. He had not been prepared for this, nor had his anal muscles. Roger was of course well-lubed but he needed to consciously relax himself as John only opened him for one of his fingers, not for his well-endowed member. The contrast between anticipation and reality was stark, and Roger hung there as John plunged back and forth inside him, his arms now wrapped about his upper body and gripping his nipples as anchor points.

This was John at his subtle best, teasing to appoint of frustration and expectation, then denying Roger and having his own, totally opposite way. It hurt, despite his best efforts, and was made more painful by John’s ministrations on his nipples. He finally came, thrusting hard inside Roger and trapping his body in a bear hug that all but left him winded. Roger could hear John’s harsh panting in his ears as he spent himself then roughly exited, leaving Roger defiled and hanging in his chains; his semen trickling out of Roger’s hole like leaking substance. This, it seemed, was to be the price Roger had to pay to experience the world outside.

*  *  *

Despite yet another event to add to the list of humiliations Roger was being subjected to, with the mental notes being added to in his head, he was excited with the expectation of being able to go outside. Childishly excited, people might say, as though by an outing to the beach or the movies. Simple things now seemed to take on unrealistic significance in his life. In the back of his mind, this distortion of reality worried him, but Roger knew he had to remain focussed on finding some method of escape, and the only way to do this was to remain obedient and look for the unguarded moment.

John returned perhaps an hour after the fucking session earlier. Roger was still hooded and gagged, with the hood locked to his steel collar. He heard the door open and raised his head from where he had been lying on the mattress where John had finally left him, curled up in a ball, trying to shut out the painful experience he had just undergone.

“Come, Rog,” said the cheerful nasal voice. “It’s time for your exercise.” Roger swung his legs off the edge of the bed and stood up, waiting for instructions.

“Before you go outside, you should put some suntan cream on – it’s quite warm today. We don’t want that lovely skin of yours getting all red and sore, do we?” John laughed. “That would take away all my fun.” A pause. “Or perhaps it would add to it… What do you think?” Roger shook his head vehemently but made no sound. “Very well, well be sun-smart. You have your hat already. Slap on some cream, but you’ll have to do without a shirt.” Again, the evil sniggering. A small tube was placed in Roger’s hand. “I’ll do your back, Roger – you can do the rest. I’m so good to you, aren’t I, Rog?”

The cream was cold on his back and shoulders. When John’s hands had finished their work, completed with a few gratuitous smearing strokes across his nipples, Roger was left to complete the job. He did this as best as he could given his restraints, which meant squatting down so that he could reach all parts of his body. Roger had never sunbathed naked – this was going to be another first, he thought grimly. He stood up and felt the click of a lead attached to the front D-ring on his collar. Apprehensively, he followed the tug.

Roger walked gingerly. Being blind and gagged was bad enough, but being unable to stretch his arms out in front made it all the more scary. He scraped the doorframe in passing through, then went only a few steps further before there was obviously another – exterior – door. Roger felt the breeze through it and, following John’s directions, he stepped down from the concrete slab on to a rougher surface which he took to be a path. A few paces beyond this, Roger was standing on grass with the sun warming his skin and the faint wind making the hairs ruffle on his arms.

Roger felt more confident on the grass, although he had no idea what might exist for him to fall over or walk into. There were no more instructions and he simply followed the pull on the lead, trusting in his jailor to let him know if there was some obstacle ahead of him.  
“Sit here for a minute, Rog,” the voice commanded. Roger did so, kneeling on the grass, which appeared to be relatively long as it tickled his arse.

Obviously it was not getting mown often. Roger savoured the feel of it and listened for the sounds of civilisation. Somewhere in the distance he could hear occasional cars on a road, but other than that, the world was silent save for the sounds of nature – the wind, a few crows and other birds. He made out the screech of a lorikeet as it winged overhead. Somewhere nearby, a small bird appeared to be laughing at Roger’s predicament. But it still felt so glorious to be outside. The scent of grass overcame the ever-present smell of the leather helmet to the extent that Roger almost forgot the chains on his wrists and ankles.

“Let’s be clear about why you’re here, Rog,” said a voice beside his head. Roger hadn’t heard John approach on the grass. “It’s for exercise, not for leisure. Things are now ready for you. Stand up!”  
‘Christ, what was he hatching for me now?’ Roger thought. He followed the tug on the lead for a few metres then John stopped him. He was then pulled forward just enough to make contact with the cold steel of a post set in the ground.

“Do you know what that is?” Roger shook his head. “Yes you do, Rog – don’t be dense. It’s a Hills hoist – your standard clothesline that every backyard has. Oh, but of course – I forgot, you don’t have any backyard anymore, do you?” Again John laughed.

“The clothesline rotates, Roger. Normally with just the wind. But in this instance I’ve fitted a small electric motor at the top of the pole, just under the horizontal arms above you. When I turn it on, the arms will rotate like a capstan. Not fast, you understand, but consistently. They will provide you with the motivation for your exercise, mainly because you’ll be attached to one of them…”

‘Oh shit,’ Roger thought; his mind leaping ahead but still not appreciating what it all meant. John drew him away from the central pole and stopped him obviously under one of the ends of the four arms. The lead was removed from his collar but was followed moments later by a biting pain in his left nipple as a large steel clip latched on to it. Roger’s right one was similarly secured seconds afterwards. He whined pitifully into the ball filling his mouth. Then there was the faint sound of a motor and a tug on his nipples. Roger moved in the direction of the pull and found himself slowly walking around in a big circle, following the tireless rotation of the clothesline. The bastard! Roger would have to keep this up unless he wanted his poor nips pulled off, for the clips were painful and he knew they would not slip off without major pain and suffering. To make matters worse, the clothesline was situated on a slight slope, which meant he had to speed up on the downward side as the cord holding the clips was stretched tighter because of the greater distance from the bar.

“See you in a while, Rog,” said the cold voice of John, bidding his farewell.  
‘Yes, you will keep,’ Roger thought through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll save something very special for you, Mr Deacon.’

*   *   *

Roger plodded round and round the clothesline for what seemed like an afternoon. There was no let up to the pain in his nipples other than the decrease into a dull ache as long as he kept slightly ahead of the pull of the cords. After some difficulty, Roger finally got his direction right and managed to maintain a constant anti-clockwise gait. The diameter of the clothesline was big enough so that he didn’t get dizzy, but it still required some degree of concentration.

The afternoon – Roger had decided that it was indeed after noon – was warm and muggy. He was hungry, for he had not eaten since what he guessed had been breakfast. The sweat rolled down the blonde’s body as he trudged around like a donkey threshing wheat or working a well. Except that the donkey would normally be pulling a load. In this case, he was the load being pulled. In the leather-encased sweatbox that was his head, perspiration ran into and stung his eyes and he was becoming very thirsty and dehydrated. At some stage during his ordeal, Roger must have slipped into his subspace realm, where the pain finally faded and he became detached from reality, placing one foot after the other in an unthinking and uncomprehending movement.

At some stage, poor Roger began to stumble – initially infrequently but soon more often. With each faltering the clips pulled fiercely at his nipples and he was jerked out of his torpid state by the pain. For the umpteenth time he tried to get his hands on the clips, but the need to keep walking kept his wrists firmly pulled down to his hips. If only Roger could have stopped he would have raised a leg long enough to get some slack to reach the hated steel jaws, but he did not have even a second’s respite from the onward movement.

Whether John was watching and saw his tired, more frequent stumbling, Roger never knows. He only knows that suddenly he had caught up with the cords towing him and they were against his head and over his shoulders. Roger halted, realising he was woozy and almost ready to faint. Hands removed the clips none to gently and he could not help but emit a muffled scream from the pain as the blood returned. Roger was led back to the house and found himself in his prison again, with the hood unlocked from around his neck. Roger had barely the strength to remove it and extract the ball from his mouth then totter to the shower where he drank his fill and let the water cool what he knew would be very sore flesh, despite the preventative measures of the suntan cream.

Dinner was waiting for him – cold pasta and two bananas which he wolfed down, before falling exhausted on the bed. The now tanned-skin man wondered if going outside was all it was cracked up to be…

*    *    *

It was the next day, as near as Roger could judge from the meals and John’s change of clothing, when he suggested another outside visit. Roger must have looked unhappy, and he was, for his nipples were still painful and tender from the workout they had received the previous day. He was also very stiff from the unaccustomed exercise. Roger did not want another repetition of the same treatment, but he didn’t dare voice an objection. That probably would have guaranteed he would receive it, with interest.

“Relax, Roger, you’ll enjoy the day – clear skies and the sounds of nature. You have to suffer to enjoy things – you know that. For every treat there has to be a sacrifice, and of course vice versa. Those are the rules.” By that logic, and after what Roger had just endured, he reckoned he was due some pleasure, and his spirits perked up somewhat. That optimistic outlook died somewhat when John picked up the leather discipline helmet hanging from the tap in the shower. Roger had washed it after use, since it was soaked with his perspiration. John tossed it over to him, followed by the sponge ball.

“Get dressed, Roger,” ordered John with a cold smile on his face. Roger knew it was all part of John’s plan, getting him to deprive himself of sight and sound - part of John’s gradual dehumanisation and domination of Roger’s will to resist. Resignedly he worked the ball into his mouth and pulled the hood over his head. It was still damp and felt cool against his skin. Roger could not do it up and had to turn his back to John as he pulled the laces tight down the back before covering the knot with the locking flap.

“Very good. Now, here’s the cream – it’s a sunny day again. Don’t want you to be a cancer victim, do we?” The tube was placed in Roger’s hand and he duly squatted and began to rub it over his legs, working his way over as much of his body as he could reach – his legs, buttocks, torso arms and nipples and some of his shoulders.

Contrary to Roger’s expectations from the previous outing, the suntan cream had done its job and he was not a mass of tenderised flesh. In this instance, Roger was almost complete when something struck him as odd. By the time he reached his nipples and shoulders, he noticed the smell of the ointment seemed different – not the normal suntan cream smell he had noticed the day before. It was just as he finished that he started to feel the slight tingling sensation starting on his legs.

“We have a makeover to do before we go outside today,” John announced, pushing Roger gently backwards so that he sat on the edge of the bed. “Spread your legs!” He did so, wondering what John meant, and not being surprised when the spreader bar was locked in place, with the leather ankle cuffs just below the steel ones connected to his wrist chains. With the spreader fully extended in place, Roger could bend his knees very little, so it had the indirect but very effective result that his hands remained tethered to his hip rings.

Around then not only were his legs starting to tingle but his backside was beginning to burn where he was sitting on it. Roger suddenly had the feeling that John had not smeared suntan lotion on his body. The tall man pulled Roger to his feet.  
“Let me do your back and shoulders now.”  
Roger whined at John, shaking his head and mmmphing a muffled protest.  
“Stop complaining, Roger. You’ll thank me for this when the sun is out.” John began rubbing Roger’s back between the waist and shoulders where he had been unable to reach. He tried to shake his captor off, grunting and mewing behind the ball lodged in his mouth and held in place by the leather mask.  
“What? What are you saying, Roger? I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” said John with an amused mockery in his voie.  
“Mmmnnph! Nnp! Nphhmn!” Roger explained vainly.

“Ohhhh… Have I given you the wrong cream?” Something in John’s unconvincing rhetorical question told Roger that he had known exactly what he had given his helpless victim. “Oh dear – you’re right.” John said that after he had coincidentally just finished the job. “I’m sorry, Roger, but we seem to have just given you a very thorough muscle-toning rub with Deep Heat, not the sunscreen one…”  
“Hhhnn??!” Roger exclaimed, not believing his ears. Shit! Deep Heat was about the strongest, most potent liniment-type ointment he had come across in his years studying in his Uni. It burned like fire and was normally used sparingly on ‘affected parts’. Roger had just covered his whole body with it!  
“Nnnnn!” Roger wailed into the mouth-filling ball, feeling his skin burned as if on fire.

“Well, it’ll do your muscles good, Roger,” John smirked. “You’ll probably need it after all the exercise you did yesterday. First there are some things I need to do. Stand still!” Roger did so, but the irritating spreading warmth over his skin was starting to make itself felt already. His wondering what John was up to was quickly answered when he seized a handful of Roger’s blonde hair, where it protruded beyond the neck collar of the discipline helmets, and promptly cut it off. In a matter of seconds, Roger’s long, blonde lock was trimmed back to the bottom of the leather.

“This was getting in the way, Rog. You need a more upmarket image, I think – something a little sophisticated. Now for the remainder.” Again Roger was pushed on to the bed. This time with his legs held by the spreader bar he fell helplessly on his back. John picked up the bar and dragged him wholly on to the mattress so that his torso was parallel with and close to the edge.

Roger did not know what John was up to, nor was he enlightened at all when, moments later some sort of plastic sheet was laid over the top of his thighs and his stomach. There followed the sound of snipping and Roger realised that his crotch had been exposed through the plastic like one being prepared for surgery. He whined in dread – God, what was John going to do to him now?

John’s intentions soon became apparent. He had placed the plastic there merely to protect himself from the hot cream smeared all over Roger’s body now about to cause him what he knew would be a lot of discomfort, to put it mildly. It seemed John was in fact intent on shaving off his nether hair. While Roger had never done this himself, he considered he could live with it, providing it did not lead to anything more sinister.

He tried to lie still while John cut away the main part of his little thatch with scissors, then spread what Roger assumed was a depilatory cream over the stubble. It wasn’t long before his nakedness had been enhanced and despite his initial acceptance of it, the psychological aspect somehow depressed Roger further. Again, it was all part of John’s plan, Roger realised. But however many times he told himself this, and however many times he recognised it for what it was, this did not seem to make it any the less effective in undermining his strong will to resist.

As Roger lay there during the process he could feel the Deep Heat starting to take effect on his back, buttocks and on the backs of his legs. Deep Heat has a nasty habit of increasing its effect as the skin heats up, kind of like a vicious circle. The skin pressed against the mattress warmed quickly, and with it the sensation of burning, like the worst case of sunburn you can imagine. Roger groaned behind the ball. At length John finished his work and washed down Roger’s crotch, wiping it clean of hair. The cold water felt good, for he knew the skin around it would be red and inflamed where he had endeavoured to protect it with ‘suntan’ cream.

Roger felt John remove himself from where he was leaning over him with his long hair covered most of his face on the bed. His calloused hand briefly stroked Roger’s now naked cock, toying with it fleetingly. But Roger think John sensed his plight in that no matter what he did, the Deep Heat would outweigh any potential arousal he might seek to conjure up, and the exploration ceased.

“Change of plan, my dear Roger,” John announced. “Probably best if you don’t go outside today, in your condition. I’ll leave two keys in here – one for your helmet and one for the cuffs on the spreader bar. They’ll be on the floor somewhere. Find them, and you can make yourself rather more comfortable. It will give you something to pass the time doing.”  
Roger heard a couple of faint tinkles, like steel on concrete, before the door closed with its ominous finality.  
‘Bastard,’ Roger thought. ‘Bastard bastard bastard!’ Roger was willing to bet John had planned this from scratch. John seemed to be a kind of person who was too methodical to be spontaneous, after all. He is a tactical, cunning bastard who planned everything behind those cold grey eyes to make Roger suffered in the worst way possible.

Roger lay there for some minutes, thinking about his plight, but the burning was starting to become really intense on all surfaces resting on the plastic of the mattress, where the heat was being trapped. The rest of his skin was now becoming hot, with his nipples in particular hurting as though they had been clamped.

He tested the fixing on the spreader bar. There was little slack in the cuffs – barely enough to allow Roger to turn his ankles slightly. They were more widely spread than he had experienced in the past, and were already starting to be pretty uncomfortable, stretching the insides of his thighs and straining his hip joint. Roger worked his way to the edge of the bed. It was amazing how restricted the bar made leg movement and hence his body as a whole. He reasoned he would have to end up sitting on the floor. Either on his front or his back was going to be very uncomfortable. Roger opted for the latter as the less bad of the two and worked his way until his heels were on the floor, before gingerly sliding over the edge. The fact that the bed was bolted to the floor at least stopped it sliding backwards away from him, and he slid none too gently to land on his rump on the concrete. It was cool against the burning in his buttocks, but he guessed his movements were soon going to change all that.  
Roger confirmed with some experimentation that he could barely bend his knees at all in the sitting position, so wide were his legs apart. But by hunching his shoulders and bending his head down, Roger could just create enough slack in the chains to be able to reach the lock on the hood. It was going to be a long morning, he realised.

And it was. The now short-haired blonde tried to do a systematic coverage of the room, going first around the walls, keeping one foot against them as he worked his way backwards using his hands and elbows. The Deep Heat had really taken hold now, and Roger’s whole body seemed to be on fire. His skin was burning up – especially the areas now in contact with the floor, not to mention his nipples and the fringes of his newly shaved hair near his cock. Over and above this was the ache in his hips and legs where they were stretched wide, and the load on his wrists and elbows as Roger moved only inch by inch with the little slack he could conjure from the chains. He was panting and moaning continuously with the pain from the Deep Heat. Roger knew it would probably do him no harm, but that was really precious little comfort under the circumstances.

As he strained with the movement and coping with his sweaty body, and of course as his skin temperature rose, so too did the effect of the Deep Heat, and the vicious cycle increased. Roger completed a circuit of the room, identifying his position with reference to the toilet and the bed, but encountered no keys. He lay on his back, his breathing hoarse and his blood pounding in his ears. Roger was frustrated and in agony from the ointment, but he knew he had to continue unless he wanted to be like this all day, or all night – or however long John wanted him to suffer. If he could only find that key, Roger knew he could get into the shower and actually use the cold water to his benefit, for once.

Exhaustion was starting to take its toll on Roger. He suspected that John was playing games with the heating again. He began to lie back more often as he progressed, and each time it became hard to sit up again. His buttocks seemed to be white hot, like the worst case of sunburn imaginable, made more excruciating as Roger dragged himself across the floor inch by inch. At one stage, he became disoriented and ended up against the bed again, in tears at his failure. Roger tried again, but it was perhaps ten minutes before he felt the clink of a key under one leg. He manoeuvred himself until he could reach it with his hand and picked it up. Roger curled himself forward until he could just reach the lock at his throat, fiddling with it and praying it was the right key. It wasn’t. It had to be the key to the ankle cuffs – whilst silently assuming it wasn’t a phoney key left by John just to goad him. Nothing he did surprised Roger anymore.

Reaching the ankle cuff was an act of contortion that left the muscles of his arms, legs and chest verging on cramp. Roger bent his legs as much as he could – which was pretty limited – and then did a cross between a sit-up and a sideways bend, forcing his right ankle and wrist towards each other. The lock was on the outside of his ankle, and after some fiddling about by feeling, the key slid into the lock and it clicked open. The relief was tangible and Roger slumped back for ten seconds. That was as long as it took for his burning skin to remind Roger of his predicament, forcing him to again assume the position and unbuckle the strap on his right ankle.

Freeing that one ankle essentially freed Roger’s whole body. He could now sit up, bend his legs, and have plenty of slack in his chains to undo the other ankle with the same key. Roger could have scrabbled around on his hands and knees looking for the key to his collar, but he was by now whimpering to himself continuously with the pain from the ointment and he was desperate to get under the shower. Roger did not care that he was still hooded and gagged – he simply wanted relief from the fire on his flesh.

Roger stood under the shower not caring if the leather helmet got wet, just savouring the coolness of the water as it flowed over his body. He lathered up as much as he could tolerate and endeavoured to wash off the remaining ointment. Hot water would have made a better job of it, but that would have been a catch-22 situation of course. Always assuming he even had hot water, that is. Roger stayed there for maybe half an hour before finally getting out and making a more reasoned search of the room for the second key. He finally found it, tucked under the chair, and proceeded to remove the discipline helmet with another wave of relief. John had even left the lights on this time, and Roger could view himself in the full-length mirror bolted to the wall behind the sheet of Perspex.

His skin was red and inflamed-looking over the whole of his body save his head. Roger’s hair, now cut to just above the shoulder was predictably damp and straggly. He returned to the shower to wash it and further cool his skin. It was to become the pattern for that day.

*  *  *

The burning heat lasted most of the day, so strong was the Deep Heat’s effect on his skin. During the night, Roger occasionally awoke with the persistent but dulled fire on some parts of his skin. Some of the ointment had remained on the plastic covering the mattress, and with a huge effort, Roger had managed to turn the mattress over so as not to make further contact with any residue. Nevertheless, wherever his skin touched the plastic, and natural body heat was trapped, so too did the last remnants of that terrible ointment make themselves felt.

John had appeared late (he reckoned) with dinner. Roger had noticed a more regular pattern in his visits of late, which was confirmed by the time he had been outside. Then it had been afternoon, and it had fitted with the meals he had been receiving. Roger got fed only twice a day, he estimated – morning and evening. The morning fare was usually fruit and bread – maybe with jam if Roger was lucky, while ‘dinner’ comprised pasta or some sort of stew which he ate with a spoon. It was not haute cuisine, that was for sure, and his reflection indicated – not surprisingly - that Roger had lost considerable weight.

Dinner, in this instance, was shepherd’s pie with peas and beans – both obviously out of a packet. Accompanying them was a video. John said nothing, just opened the door and shoved the tray in before leaving. Roger still wore the collar chain attached to the post and it was currently at such a length that he had to lie on the floor and stretch out his arm to where the tray was placed inside the door. Roger guessed that was John’s little reminder of his vulnerability, and that whatever concessions he offered, they were just that, and able to be withdrawn at the slightest transgression on Roger’s part or the merest whim on his wish.

The video was nothing special – an old film Roger had recorded on BBC – but it was a luxury for Roger to be able to curl up on the bed and lose himself in the outside world, forgetting his trials and torments and the uncertain future that he faced.

*  *  *

John was apologetic the next day – tongue in cheek, that is.  
“What happened with the ointment was most regrettable,” he explained. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, Roger” He paused. “Unless of course you disobey me or cause any sort of trouble.” His voice was steely and matched the coldness of his eyes. “The memory is obviously fresh in your mind Rog. You realise that I am doing what is best for you, and that you must understand that privileges have to be earned – they are not yours of right. Can you imagine yesterday’s treatment supplemented with a flogging? Then another application of the Deep Heat? Just think about that. Think about clamps on your nipples after they have been massaged with Deep Heat… Think about your behaviour again. Bear the possible consequences in mind and consider whether you would be strong enough to withstand them.” Roger noticeably shivered at John’s threat.

“Would you like to go outside today, Rog?”

“Will it hurt, sir?” Roger asked fearfully, and after the last two days, his fear was very real. He did not trust John one iota. Every so-called concession he made came at a price, and Roger was not sure whether he still had some more instalments on this little jaunt.  
“No, Rog, you’ve earned this one. An hour in the sun – take your book and the suntan cream – the real stuff. I’m not a monster, you know.” John grinned, but Roger’s return smile – he knew was faint and tremulous.

Roger scarcely dared to believe what was happening – he was going to get his first sight of the outside world in what must have been over a month now. Roger had estimated his period of his captivity as being close to six weeks, as near as he could, judging from the patterns in John’s behaviour, his clothes, the food, and anything else Roger could use for benchmarking his incarceration.

The day was hot and humid, the temperature probably around thirty degrees, typical of England in July. John had locked a chain to Roger’s collar and locked the other end of it around the trunk of a beech tree that dominated the back yard before he returned to the house. Roger sat in the shade, too excited to read, eager to understand his surroundings and to try to work out where he was and to identify any possibility for escape.

His immediate reaction was at once positive and negative. There did not seem to be any totally insurmountable fences or walls bordering the place, but some looked pretty difficult if Roger had to scale them chained as he was. The back lawn was large – perhaps twenty metres by forty, sloping gently away from the house. The garden was predominantly along the boundary of the lawn, with a number of mature trees also defining the perimeter, behind which a wire mesh fence maybe a metre and a half high was visible. Beyond that, there just seemed to be more bush. There were no signs of other houses where the inhabitants might be able to see or hear Roger – but he should have expected that. Good old John wasn’t going to let Roger out to put on a show for the neighbours, that was for sure.

While he was disappointed at the lack of habitation, Roger was heartened at the bush surrounding the place. It looked like John’s place backed on to some sort of reserve or forest park. He could see hills which were not too distant – maybe a kilometre away – and there was no sign of development there. Roger was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was on an acreage property somewhere.

The house itself was a pretty ordinary thing – it looked like it had been moved here and installed on steel posts to provide for the block work room underneath that was now Roger’s cage. Of timber with a rusty corrugated iron roof, the house was one of those nineteen fifties efforts that were remarkable only for their small windows and general lack of imagination. It could do with a coat of paint, but was otherwise unremarkable. Roger could only see the back and one side. A set of enclosed stairs ran down the back wall into a small lobby which had an external door giving on to the back lawn. This lobby also contained the door to his dungeon, Roger had just found out, the key to which John kept on his key ring at all time.

Roger spent the hour just gazing about the garden, not even opening his book. The grass was quite long and matched the state of the rest of the garden – overgrown and unkempt. It was warm and pleasant in the shade of the beech tree, and even the chains on his body were forgotten as Roger eagerly took in the garden view, memorising the layout and the location of each tree, the clothesline, the pathway, the fence, and the bush beyond. On the side of the house that was visible to him was a timber fence about his height, running at right angles from the front corner of the house to the side boundary, effectively cutting off the back yard from any prying eyes. Adjacent to the house there was a timber gate in the fence, which Roger had no doubt was locked. He doubted that he could climb the fence in his chained state, never mind the fact that he would have to free himself of his neck chain before he could even think that far ahead. Suddenly there appeared to be hope in Roger’s life, as long as he didn’t blow it. His resolve strengthened to be the most demure and subservient slave possible to John, whilst in the deepest recesses of his mind, Roger was planning his escape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter is up! Sorry for the lack of update, lovelies. I hope you like this one ;) Hope you guys have a great day, darlings!


	12. Like a Clockwork

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 12 - Like a Clockwork**

 

Roger’s foray outside proved uneventful, contrary to his more pessimistic expectations. Then life became dreary again. Up until that time John had seemed to be at home on a random basis. He explained that he had used up his holidays in order to get Roger settled in and to deal with the various asset disposals he had to undertake. Roger gathered today outside was a Sunday. For the next five days, he  spent his days in the dungeon, locked up with a book and occasionally a video, if John could be bothered recording something for him.

 

Life was pretty boring, to say the least. Roger had his usual breakfast and dinner, and would have had precious little else to occupy himself with if John hadn't decided that Roger needed a bit of stimulation in his absence. Which was why he ended up with his wrist cuffs locked behind him. This in itself was no big deal, but with John every small matter was part of a greater whole.

 

Roger had the stainless steel crotch strap locked on him again, with, of course, the vibrating butt plug and the vibrator switched on at breakfast time.  But John, predictably, was not content with the status quo as it had been previously. This time, John found out, the two intruders were screwed to the steel strap, completely unabling Roger to take them out by himself. He also discovered that on the outside of the strap, between his legs and midway between the two devices was a steel U-lug to which John locked a chain connected to each ankle. The end result of this was that when he walked, the movement of his ankles, forwards and backwards tugged on the strap, which in turn made his inserts move inside him.  Which in turn gave Roger a sore arse but made his cock hardened and convulse whenever he had to move too much from the overstimulation inside his hole. This, in truth, wasn't necessary, but then, even sitting still made Roger horny as hell, and he really couldn't access his cock with his hands behind him, which left Roger with little option other than to curl and rub himself on the mattress until he climaxed. 

 

But even this was hard work, for in locking his cuffs together behind his back, and in locking on the strap-to-ankles chain, Roger could no longer straighten his legs properly, leaving him walking in a half-squat, or at the very least with a pronounced stoop. In short, it was exceedingly hard work, and one that left his knees and thighs aching from the stooping, never mind from the inevitable rubbing against the bed frame that he ended up doing. Invariably, Roger ended up sweating and cursing as he struggled to climax, then crying out unashamedly as the spasms rising from his crotch overwhelmed any semblance of control he had left. He also felt disgusted at himself for feeling the sticky liquid of his cum steadily flowing from his strap into the plastic-covered mattress. His strength decreased in proportion to the number of times he climaxed, and once he had achieved the first one, he rapidly fell prey to further orgasms.  By a hypothetical lunchtime he was ready to sleep, oblivious to the occasional stirrings (real or artificial) within his arse. 

 

On John's return, Roger was allowed to remove the strap for the night, and surprisingly he did not demand sex. Perhaps if he had been planning such, Roger would not have suffered his daytime treatment.

 

Thus was the pattern for that week, and he desperately hoped for a change on the weekend, for he found the saying that you could have too much of a good thing to be palpably true, given his inability to resist the unending stimulation from the vibrators over the course of a morning.

 

Came Saturday and the same routine was repeated, although this time John did not fasten his cuffs behind him, nor did he turn the vibrators on. While Roger knew something new was coming, and he welcomed the change, he did not like the thought of another of John's demonic tricks.

 

This time he was oiled up and taken outside straight after breakfast, his crotch strap in place and connected to his ankles, but with just enough slack so that he could walk upright. His cuffs were not joined and he could walk almost normally, but he quailed at the sight of the clothesline with the clips hanging on a cord from the end of one of the horizontal arms.

 

"N-no sir, please..." Roger whispered as John drew him towards the line by the chain clipped to his collar.

 

"What?" His nasal voice was sharp as he stopped and turned towards Roger. "What did you say?"

 

Roger shook his head, staring at the ground. John jerked him across to where the cord hung from the bar. "By rights you should be gagged as a result of that," John commented heartlessly as he unclipped the chain from his collar and fastened the two metal clamps on his nipples. Roger gasped with the sudden pain, biting his lip to stop crying out. "But I think it might be more fun not to - this time." He bent down and switched on the small motor that started the clothesline rotating. There was a sharp tug on his nipples and he began walking, round and round. How long was he going to have to endure this time, Roger wondered?

 

Once again he decided that the decision by John not to gag him was not a spur of the moment whim. Roger knew perfectly well what he was going to suffer, and John had told him so in no uncertain terms.

 

"There are two things you must do, Rog. The first thing is that you must stay silent. The second thing is a negative - you must not climax. I will assist you in this because I'm in a generous mood, by not turning your little friends on. I suspect, however, that knowing you, simply walking around with them moving about inside you will prove difficult to resist. If of course you do climax, and are somewhat vocal about it in the process, you can expect to be treading that circle for a long time. Or at least until I think of something more appropriate. As things stand - again, because I am so generous, I'll allow you twenty minutes for your walk."

 

With those directions, John disappeared around the side of the house and returned with a folding director's chair and a newspaper under his arm. With studied concentration he set up the chair beside the pole supporting the clothesline and settled down to read the paper, his long hair billowing around him. It was funny how someone who had soft features like John could have the heart to do unspeakable things beyond Roger’s wildest imagination. 

 

It was another lovely morning. Good-old-fashioned England - beautiful one day, dreary the next. Right then Roger was thinking his day was decidedly less than perfect. The electric motor driving the thing that towed him endlessly around by his nipples was silent enough so that if he so much as squeaked John would hear him. And the pain in the aforementioned nipples was enough to make him more than squeak. At least he could see, however, counting his blessings that he wasn't disoriented like his previous brush with the torture. To offset that, however, Roger had disturbing sensations arising from his hardening cock that he tried hard to ignore, thinking of anything but sex, and in desperation for once focussing on the pain in his chest as a refuge from the warm fuzzy feeling that were occurring down below. Somehow he felt the pain was more controllable than the pleasure, as he slowly worked himself into the kind of fugue state that he had managed in the course of his previous visits to Sub Space.

 

Roger must have managed it this time as well, for he was miles away when the motor stopped abruptly and he caught up with the clips on the rope and jerked himself to a painful halt.

 

"Very good, Rog," John said, coming over and unfastening the clips. He groaned and panted with the sudden pain, screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as he tried to blot it out until it subsided to a tolerable level. Then it was the lead clipped to his collar again and he was following John to the house and into the little enclosed lobby at the rear that led to his dungeon. 

 

But this time, they passed the door to his room, instead ascending the wooden steps to the floor above. Roger was startled, and for a moment he forgot the sensations in his cock as he wondered what was in store for him upstairs. 

 

In his mind's eye he had a mental picture of the layout above, not least because of where he could see waste pipes poking through the floor above his room. He reckoned he knew where the shower, toilet and kitchen were, and where John's bedroom was from the walking about. It was a house pretty well devoid of architectural merit - as was frequently the case with structures from the forties and fifties. Small windows and not a great appreciation of sun or view were the usual features, although in this case, since it had been relocated from some other location, he could hardly apportion the blame on the original designer.

 

The backdoor opened into the kitchen with a closed door to the right, which Roger guessed was the laundry. Directly opposite the backdoor was a hallway, at the end of which he could see the front door. The hall was dark and gloomy, with several doors opening off it, all of which were closed.

 

"Welcome to my abode," said John with a flourish. ROger looked about the kitchen.  To say it needed work was a euphemism. The linoleum on the floor was brittle and scarred from many kitchen disasters, and was coming away in parts to reveal the floorboards underneath. The cupboards were ancient and in that terribly dated fifties style with exposed hinges and handles. To say the place also needed a clean was similarly a dramatic understatement. If this was where his meals had been coming from, it was a wonder he had not succumbed to some mysterious ailment. Dishes were piled in the sink and rubbish seemed to be everywhere. Roger could see why John had the windows open as well. The rotting stench of food sharply intruded Roger’s nostrils. He tried his best not to wince at the smell, too afraid to provoke his captor’s often-too-disturbing imagination and did something foul to him.  Roger followed him into the hallway silently, trying his best to memorise every nook and cranny John called home and the place that had been Roger’s confinement for so long. 

 

John opened each door in turn and showed him, down the left hand side were a dining room, a study and the living room at the front of the house. Opposite this was his bedroom, complete with unmade king sized bed. Next to it was another room, which probably had once been a bedroom in a previous life. Now it was a workshop, with a workbench and a heap of tools scattered about. He closed the door as they exited into the hall again and locked it with the keys on his belt.  The last door was the bathroom, and then they were back in the kitchen.

 

"So, what do you think, Rog?"

 

"Nice, sir," he mumbled.

 

"But not as nice as yours was, of course," he said with a grin. "I'm going to do it up, you see. I like it out here, but the house really does need some upgrading - which you're paying for, of course, Roger. I have a builder coming on Monday to look at refurbishing everything - kitchen and bathroom particularly, but a repaint and new floor coverings as well. Exciting, yes?"

 

"Yes, sir," Roger agreed trying not to sound enthusiastic, although his heart was leaping at the thought of other people coming to the house and the possibilities this left for possible escape.

 

"But of course I wouldn't want them to see it like this, so I'm getting someone in to do the cleaning." he should have seen it coming. Nobody would touch the cleaning aspect except for an exorbitant amount and only providing they had good health cover. "And you've volunteered for the job."

 

"Thank you sir," Roger said meekly. It did not thrill him at all, but the break from the tedium of being locked up down below meant he would do anything, particularly if it meant the possibility of escape, or at least the chance to identify a future opportunity.

 

"Sit down, Rog," John said, indicating the stained vinyl-covered tubular steel chair next to the matching kitchen table. He perched himself gingerly on the chair, his skin crawling at the contact with the grease and dirt, while at the same time the steel strap forced the inserts deeper inside him. Roger squirmed uncomfortably and looked up to see John's face a hand span away from his own.

 

"I will only tell you this once, Rog. You are being given this job as a reward for your good behaviour." His voice went steely and his grey eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you so much as even think about trying anything silly, you will be sorrier that you can imagine. Picture yourself suspended upside down with weights on your balls and nipples, with those nice toys inside you coated with Deep Heat. That is after you've been scrubbed from head to toe with it and received a thorough flogging before the second application. How does thirty strokes with the cane sound, after all that? Is that what you want? Do you want to suffer this for days at a time, deprived of speech, sight and hearing, not to mention movement and probably food? Is there anything I have left out? I'm sure I could think up something, probably involving electricity... Am I making myself clear, Roger?" He cupped his hand under Roger’s trembling chin and forced him  to stare into those chilling and emotionless grey eyes. 

 

"Yes - s-sir." Roger couldn’t stop the tremble in his voice.

 

"It would be your worst nightmare, Rog. Worse than anything that you have experienced so far. Let me tell you it just isn't worth it. I know what you might do, what you think - and believe me you won't find any knives or other instruments of destruction here. They're locked away. The phone is in the workshop, so forget dialing triple nine. And my workshop is locked and stays that way. Everything else gets cleaned properly. And don't count on slipping out the back door when I'm not looking. Let me show you something else."

 

John opened a drawer and extracted what looked like a large builder's tape measure. But instead of the tape being pulled out, a fine wire emerged from the case when he pulled it. 

 

"Stainless steel wire, Rog, only a two millimetres thick, but nothing you'll cut without a grinder, an oxy torch or a lot of hard sawing with a hacksaw. Spring loaded into the old tape case - seven metres of it. The end you see has this crimped loop - here." John held it up in front of Roger’s face. "I can lock this to your collar like so." He removed the lead and he felt the sure click of a lock securing the fine wire to his collar. "The case itself now gets locked here," he said, walking towards the hallway, the wire unspooling as he did so. Roger watched as John squatted down and fitted a large padlock through a hole in the case then drew it down to the floor. He followed his movement and saw a small U-bolt screwed into the kitchen floor just inside the doorway. To this was locked another wire which disappeared down the hallway.

 

"This wire is fixed to another bolt just inside the front door, Roger. It is also only two millimetres thick, but probably strong enough to tow a car with, if I wanted to. The tape case is locked to it, which at once gives you the freedom to go up and down the hallway, while your collar wire gives you a further seven metres in any direction - enough to go into all the rooms and do a proper cleaning job. Pretty neat, huh? Strong, but unobtrusive. Of course I shall remove it before the builder comes. In the meantime, you have work to do."

 

John showed Roger a box of cleaning materials under the sink and a packet of garbage bags on the floor, before leaving him to his task. His ears still ringing with the dreadful fate that awaited him if he strayed from the path his psycho kidnapper had laid out for him.

 

* * *

 

Despite John’s dire warning, Roger’s mind could not help but look for anything that might help him escape. Anything he found, however, would be unless it could get him out of the confinement by the steel wire. Other than cutting the wire, he would need a large screwdriver to remove what were pretty big screws securing the bolt to the floor, and he wasn't even sure he had the strength for such a task.

 

It took Roger most of that day just to get the kitchen in some form of orderly state. He found an apron hanging behind the door - one of those pvc barbeque ones that every home seems to attract at some stage. This one had cats all over it, and was the first form of clothing he had worn for many weeks. At least it was better than cleaning around the room stark naked. He found a pair of rubber gloves under the sink, and between these and the apron, Roger hoped to protect some of his body from the various cleaning agents he was obliged to use.

 

The hours passed quickly with work to do, but that was not to say temptation did not come his way, despite John's intentions. In fact it was the temptation of a different sort from that contemplated by him. True to his word, the cutlery was in a locked drawer, and there was precious little else he could use to do any damage with. The temptation came from the fridge and cupboards, which, for all their dust and dirt, nevertheless still contained food. Despite his being gainfully employed, it was apparent he was still only going to get his regular two meals a day. Having to look at tubs of ice cream, blocks of cheese and bottles of coke increased the empty feeling that seemed to grow the longer Roger worked. He plucked up enough courage to drink a glass of water from the tap while he was in the process of washing up, but even in doing that he was terrified that John would see him and object to it. The thought of getting caught sneaking a biscuit or a piece of cheese was too awful for Roger to contemplate.

 

Another temptation was to stop and look at the newspapers that were stacked up in one corner. He used some of them to wrap rubbish and others he simply piled into a garbage bag pending instructions, but all the while he was looking at the dates on the papers for the most recent he could find. Roger scared himself as the numbers reached March 5th. My God, he had been captive for at least two months!

 

Given that he was now experiencing a weekend, and this was Monday's paper, he figured it was now Saturday 10th March. How was this possible? Roger was now determined to use his new knowledge and the apparent easing of his restrictions into some sort of routine, to keep a record of his captivity. Exactly who would ever get to see it, Roger wasn't sure and that was something he didn't really want to think about.

 

John spent most of the day either in his study or his workshop. By the time Roger had cleared the rubbish from the kitchen, done a major washing up and had then cleaned the floor, it was well into the afternoon. Ordinarily he would have been finished in half the time, but the chains limiting his hand movements were frustrating in the extreme. He ended up kneeling on a stool to do the washing up, and climbing on and off one to put dishes away in some of the higher cupboards. Cleaning tables and benches left him standing on one leg, the other raised in ridiculous fashion as he wiped down a surface. More than once he turned to find John standing in the doorway smiling at his discomfort. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of one who intends worse fates to lie ahead.  And damn if it wasn’t humiliating him.

 

As a result of all this climbing on and off stools and leg-raising, Roger supposed it was inevitable that his inserts would rub him up the wrong way, so to speak. They moved about inside in a way that both frustrated and excited him, and eventually he had to get on to his knees with a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush, to go through the act of washing the floor, while managing to grit his teeth as an orgasm finally burst forth. He rocked back and forwards on his scrubbing brush, panting and squeezing his legs together, trying to remain silent and to block out the roaring of blood in his ears. Three times it happened within the space of an hour, and each time, Roger had to wipe himself discreetly so John wouldn’t find out about him orgasm. Moreover, the unaccustomed activity level and the lack of food had made Roger felt the first faintness assault him when he stood up. He was still scared that John would catch him, flushed and aroused, and he dared not think where that might lead.

 

Rogar had finally finished with the kitchen - as much as he could reach, anyway. He moved into the laundry opposite and was starting in here when John wandered into the kitchen and started rattling around in the cupboards. He poked his head around the door and beckoned to him.

 

"Time to earn your keep Rog. I assume you can cook? "

 

"Yes sir."

 

"Well cook something out of that. Use whatever you want if it will mean something passable. Okay?"

 

"What about cooking implements, sir?"

 

He unlocked the drawer containing the cutlery. 

 

"I still don't trust you, Rog. Take off that apron. No hiding places for sharp knives. You will wash all implements and replace them in this drawer before serving dinner, save for those knives and forks needed to eat with. You will serve dinner to me on a tray in the living room within an hour, and you will wait beside me while I eat. You will eat only if and when I tell you. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

John left, and Roger marvelled at his luck. He saw it as a chance to gain favour and to further reinforce his subservience until the right time came. He removed the apron and busied himself with dinner. He had left out a plate of minced meat, which he turned into a cottage pie and eventually served with grilled cheese on top. The hardest part was carrying the hot bowl, which he could only manage on a tray in a half crouch, petrified that he would spill some of the hot food on his unprotected body.

 

John was sitting on the couch, enjoying Roger’s waddle into the room as he tried not to trip up on the thin wire attached to his collar that was spooling out after him. John took the tray from him and pointed to the floor. Roger knelt beside John and waited passively as he ate. ‘I should have put some weedkiller in it’ he thought rebelliously as John turned up the cricket game that was on the television and pointedly ignored the humiliated blonde.

 

He finished the meal without a word of comment and concentrated on the game, motioning Roger in front of him with a couple of snaps of his fingers, so that he could stretch out his feet on his exposed back. Strangely enough it was this move that in a way riled Roger almost more than all the indignities that John had inflicted on him so far. At least under those circumstances, Roger had at least been treated as a human being - albeit a slave - but the idea of existing purely as a piece of furniture, not even to be talked to - or at - left him fuming. But of course there was nothing he could do, not chained and secured to the anchor wire, and not with dire threats hanging over his head if he flouted this newfound "freedom" from the dungeon.

 

The game ended, but not the way John obviously wanted. England was beaten and that was clearly not a satisfactory outcome for John. He turned the TV off and made me kneel on a cushion seat from a large armchair, placed on the floor. He produced two padlocks from his pocket and locked Roger’s left wrist cuff to his left ankle cuff and then did the same for the right ones. This left him with his head hard down on the cushion and his arse in the air, and he did not like where it was going at all. John then proceed to remove the strap from his waist together with its accompanying intruders, in a manner that was swift and clinical. It felt strange after having contained these devices for the whole day to suddenly be emptied of them. 

 

John’s idea of foreplay - as so often seemed to be the case - was to give Roger’s cock a thorough spanking, first with his hands, then with a belt. Roger could not help himself, and the tears began to flow, nor could he prevent small whimpers escaping through his gritted teeth as he ground his face into the cushion. Several times John’s belt flicked between his legs and he fought to stifle the yowls from the pain that exploded from his sensitive region. John's answer to this was to take the belt and wrap it twice around his head, passing through Roger’s mouth, before buckling it tightly behind his neck, leaving him drooling and slurping uncontrollably.

 

John was in a savage mood, and Roger got a thorough screwing that had a ferocity that scared the hell out of him. Roger got a painful arse-reaming exercise that could barely qualify as anything other than an animalistic rutting. And all the while his master said nothing, other than to grunt as he thrust into Roger over and over again before climaxing in a sudden frenzy.

 

John withdrew and left him there, pushing him on to his side before leaving the room and turning the lights out. He heard him go into the bathroom and the sound of a shower. God, what he wouldn't have done for a hot shower, both after what he had just gone through, but also because he had not had a decent one for over two months.

 

Roger lay there trying to get himself as comfortable as he could, for perhaps two hours while John moved about the house. He was in one of his uncommunicative moods, eventually returning and unlocking his wrists and ankles but leaving the belt in his mouth obviously just to spite him. The wire was unlocked from his neck and he was given a plastic container of the remainder of the meal, which Roger took downstairs with him. John pushed him into his dungeon without a word and slammed the door, leaving him in darkness to remove the belt and eat his food, before falling on his bed and crying himself into an exhausted sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sunday was almost a repeat of the previous day, except this time Roger was spared the torment of the clothesline. He supposed he had in fact got off lightly the previous evening, given the temper John was in. On this particular day, after breakfast, he was again secured to the hallway anchor wire and made to clean all the rooms except the workshop.

 

Again he had the steel crotch strap locked on, with the egg vibrator and dildo securely inserted inside him. He was to later find that his restricted movements in vacuuming require him to bend constantly at the knees to give himself enough arm movement, subtly worked the inserts around in a way that again forced Roger to find a place away from John to reach a climax as quietly as he could. John’s idea of variations on a theme in this case was to chain the vacuum cleaner to the U-lug on the strap between his legs on a metre of chain. This inevitably meant unexpected tugs at the strap and the devices inside him, which proved most disconcerting.

 

Roger passed the day dusting and wiping everything he could reach, while taking the opportunity to have a good look around the house. Predictably it was about six months since the place had last been cleaned, and he got the decided impression that John was somewhat of a slob. Having dusted and vacuumed the place, he was shown the washing machine and drier and directed to the clothesbasket, not to mention the clothes strewn around the place in various rooms. Which was how he ended up ironing most of John's wardrobe late in the evening after having again made dinner. Roger could see the potential for his becoming some sort of full-time maid here, and much as he hated the idea, it was at least preferable to the endless incarceration downstairs, and it at least offered some hope for escape.

 

It was this latter idea that was foremost in his thoughts when at one stage in Roger’s cleaning routine, in John’s bedroom at the front of the house, he was trying to get the vacuum cleaner into the furthest corner of the room. It was at this point that he was at the furthest point from the anchor wire in the hall, and in the process of cleaning the corner, his head jerked back as he reached the limit of the spooling wire attached to his collar. He noticed that when he retreated from the room, the wire failed to retract into the tape housing. He squatted in the hallway and studied the small case locked to the anchor wire and saw how John had fastened the neck wire. From the housing a small tongue or strip of flexible steel, like that of the tape measure, protruded maybe a centimetre or so. The stainless steel wire had been looped through a hole in the steel and

then crimped to itself. The steel tongue was obviously part of the retraction spring mechanism, but somehow it had become jammed. He fiddled with it, trying to make it retract. That was when John caught Roger.

 

He was furious. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice was hot with fury.

 

"The w-wire..." he stammered. "It got stuck when he reached the f-far corner in your room... I was trying to make it go back in..."

 

John glared at Roger, suspicion in his eyes, then looked at the device attached to the anchor wire. He made Roger return to the extreme point of the wire to verify that such was the case, and eventually seemed satisfied. He was trembling with fear and desperate to show his innocence. John fixed the retraction mechanism and made the wire rewind, and finally appeared satisfied that he had not done anything untoward, but just to make a point, John forced Roger to wear small plastic nipple clips for the rest of the afternoon. He recognised them as being weights that were normally clipped to the edges of tablecloths for outdoor or picnic situations. They were of white plastic with small weights in the shape of strawberries hanging from them. John appeared delighted with the way they hung from his nipples and swung about when Rogee moved. He did not think it at all amusing and had to put up with the dull ache in his nipples for the rest of the afternoon.

 

But all through his trials - including a repeat screwing on the cushion in the living room - until he was returned to his dungeon that evening, Roger’s mind was preoccupied with that connection between the neck wire and the steel tongue protruding from the tape case. He had seen metal measuring tapes break before, and the tongue in that casing was no different from the tape itself. He reckoned a decent pair of scissors might even be able to cut through it. Suddenly for the first time in 2 months, Roger was filled with real hope - hope that there was an end to this enslavement he was being forced into.

 

* * *

 

Roger found it hard to sleep that night, his mind hairing off at various tangents as he tried to still his excitement - and his fear. Dominant in his mind was the thought of what would happen to him if he failed in his attempt. If he escaped, John's life would be in tatters when he got to the authorities. If he didn't, Roger’s life would not be worth continuing with.

 

John was in a good mood the next morning, Roger guessed because the builder was coming to do a measure up and inspection. Regrettably, the presence of another person upstairs - the first time it had happened since he had been captured - meant trouble for Roger. That was how he ended up bound to the post again. The chains had been removed from his wrists and ankles - presumably so he didn't start clanking them against the steel post - and his hands crossed and bound in front. A large strap joined his elbows behind the post, securing him to it very effectively and immobilising his arms save a possible fluttering of the hands. Further straps went around the post and his body at waist level and below his chest, while John used about a hundred metres of cord to bind his legs tightly together before tying them to the post. Then it was discipline helmet time. 

 

Expanding plugs went into his ears, then a firm but slightly squishy rubber ball was forced behind his teeth before the leather hood enveloped his head and everything went black. John did not do it up completely at the back, instead using multiple turns of tape to meld his head firmly to the column. 

 

"Wiggle for me, Rog," John commanded in his ear. Roger tried, pretty unsuccessfully. Smack! The flogger struck his right nipple. He jerked with the unexpected pain and struggled as best he could, whimpering into the rubber ball. His hands tightened the belts a notch, and then John was gone.

 

Roger stayed there in that position for the remainder of the morning. He thought he heard multiple footsteps at some time, but his hearing was fuzzy under the tape, the hood and the plugs. The minimalist nasal whining he was capable of would not go far, he knew. He was sure it would be unable to be heard upstairs. If it was, Roger had no doubt John would explain it away as a dog or something, and he could be sure of some very unpleasant consequences when the builder had left. Roger’s only consolation was that in an effort to keep him quiet, John had not stuffed him full of vibrators or plugs, nor was he obliged to wear clamps on any susceptible part of his body. It was thus a long, drawn out day, where he finally caught up with some of his lost sleep from the night before. It was to be the beginning of a number of such periods as the builders began their work - work which at once gave Roger hope and left him in despair as he was to be secured immovably and silently while his possible saviours began their work only metres above him.

 

* * *

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my lack of update. Life has been rough these past few months. But thanks to your support and lovely reviews, I can write through this chapter. A special thank you for DiscoDeaks, HarleeRogers_Stark, emma_and_orlando, schatzen, Cgirl1981 for your concern and sweet messages. You guys have been so kind and very understanding. Thank you so much for your support.  
> And for my dearest readers, I hope you enjoy this chapter as I enjoy writing them. Bye for now - V


	13. No Turning Back

**Welcome Darkness, My New World**

**Chapter 13 - No Turning Back**

  


That week was not one of the more pleasant weeks in Roger’s experience at John’s house. The builders arrived the day following the inspection and commenced on ripping the upstairs area apart. John was at work, and was obviously well aware that Roger was potentially able to try to attract the attention of the newcomers. That was the theory, anyway; and it wasn’t going to happen. Aside from the fact that there was enough noise going on with the renovation such that any moan or squeak that emanated from his person would be lost in the general din, John made it his job to ensure that Roger was in no position to contribute to the noise levels himself.

His previous experience of being bound to the post was the forerunner of a series of such trials, but had only lasted a couple of hours. John evidently found it appropriate to vary Roger’s positions if only just for a change, but they were harsh in that they lasted a whole day and invariably totally immobilised him. As for the first one, the blonde was at least thankful that he did not have to suffer the clamps, clips and inserts that John was so fond of, and thus his direct pain level was lowered. But the endless hours of being bound in one position unable to move took their toll on him, both physically and mentally. 

Roger’s first day was in some ways a relatively easy one in that he was bound on his back on the bed, spreadeagled. It was not a particularly imaginative position, but it was very effective. His wrists and ankles received leather cuffs which were tightly anchored to the four corners of the bed. Not content with this, further straps were placed around his thighs just above his knees by John, and these were similarly secured with cords to the bed frame. Ropes were likewise attached to his steel waist belt on each side, and Roger knew it was going to be a long day. But at that stage, he did not know how long and quiet it would be for him. 

John pulled a rubber bathing cap over his hair before stuffing a rubber ball in Roger’s petite mouth. It was not as large as some he had experienced, and he could almost close his mouth over it. When he did, his tongue was effectively silenced, and this was ensured by the multiple turns of silver duct tape John wound around his head, drawing his jaw shut and covering his mouth. Roger had expected this. What he had not expected was the gas mask his ‘overly-gracious’ master produced at that point. It was bizarre, but Roger soon saw John’s logic. It was made of rubber and fitted snugly over his head, being pulled tight with a number of straps at the back. Not content with that, John sealed the edges with more duct tape. Roger was starting to panic at that point, for it had suddenly become rather claustrophobic in his world beneath the mask. The eye plates seemed to be tinted and the smell of the rubber filled his nostrils. Both his hearing and sight had been substantially reduced now, and his senses were being dominated by the rasping of his breath and the distant thudding of the blood in his ears.

Roger  was aware of the breathing tube leading out from the mask, but he had not seen it connected to anything.

“Can you hear me, Rog?” came John’s distant voice. He nodded as best he could. “Good. Let me just explain something. This nice fashion accessory you’re wearing is designed to reduce any noise you may make through that pretty nose of yours. There is another way to do that, of course, but it tends to be rather permanent.” John chuckled at his own twisted joke. “There are two tubes leading to your mask, each with a simple flap at the junction. One is the inlet, the other is the outlet for your air. There is thus no danger of rebreathing stale air. In simple terms, the use of this tube will stifle the moaning and carrying on that you are prone to indulge in. Understand?” Roger nodded again. 

“Let’s give it a little test, shall we?” There was a piercing pain as he pinched his nipple hard and twisted it fiercely. He tried to jerk, but the only part of him that  he could move was his head; the rest of his body being immovably secured to the bed. Roger yowled behind the tape, but the only noise he could manage came through his nose, only to reverberate inside his mask.

“Very good, Roger. But I want you to really try hard.” A double pinch this time – fingernails biting into the very tip of each nipple. He stiffened as though an electric shock passed through his body - but again all movement was restrained, except for a rolling of his head. Again he made a nasal yowl inside the mask, which obviously hardly carried into the room.

“Excellent.” John was evidently really pleased with himself. Predictably Roger’s head was then the last thing to be secured, as further ropes were attached to the steel collar around his neck and two final cords were tied to the top straps on the mask and tethered to the bed head. 

“See you tonight, Rog. Behave yourself.” And with that last statement, John left Roger to his dark, lonely world.

*  * *

For some reason John had left the light on, but beneath the mask and behind the dark lenses, Roger could dimly make out the floor joists above him that formed the extent of his visible world. He could turn his head only a small amount, and could not lift it at all. The rest of his body was totally immovable save his feet and hands.

The naked and tightly-immobilized captive could hear the men walking about above, but the sound was indistinct. There was intermittent banging and crashing, which he presumed was the removal of existing cupboards and other fittings. Beneath the rubber and duct tape he could not distinguish voices, and the initial feeble moans he managed clearly went nowhere. Roger thought about these men – symbols of outside normality – going about their work unaware of the prisoner lying bound to the bed in the room below, silenced and unable to communicate by other than wishful thoughts.

He presumed John had removed the anchor wire down the hallway. That might have been hard to explain away, otherwise. His mind went over and over the connecting tongue of steel inside the housing, and how and when he might cut through it. The thought excited and petrified Roger. John would surely kill him if he got caught.

The lack of stimulation in his world had the inevitable consequence of sending Roger into subspace, then to sleep. He awoke intermittently, usually through some overly loud noise, such as some of the rubbish being tossed into a dumpster from the front balcony. Then he would doze off again, only to be awakened with an ache usually in his shoulders or hips, caused by the unnatural spread of his limbs and their lack of movement. It was painful and uncomfortable, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. If John was killed in a car crash, Roger would probably die there, through dehydration or starvation. Much as he would have liked to see such a fate befall his captor, Roger knew he was still dependent on him for his own wellbeing. By this time, Roger had a thousand time over to mule his stupidity for falling into the hunter’s trap. How he did not realise it in the first place that someone he trusted could be the main villain in his story and he was, by all definition, the stupid lamb walking into slaughter house.

Once again, Roger awoke to silence, and he could only guess that the men had done a day’s work. John would soon be home to free him… A long time had seemed to pass before he heard the door open and sensed the presence of his jailor. His release did not come immediately – not until John had taken advantage of his widely spread legs and exposed anus. By this time around, John had repeatedly used his hole over and over that it was loosened from the inserts he had received. 

One decent thing about John, if one could call it that, was that he preferred Roger to be prepared rather than just thrusting raw into him. Therefore, John always prepared him before inserting his well-endowed member into Roger, lubing him thoroughly and pressing his fingers to find the prostate until Roger became uncontrollably hard, then thrusting into him with a vigour he could do nothing to counter. Roger closed his eyes and let him pump away, the weight of him on top of his own tied and spreadeagled body only drawing everything tighter, making him clenching and unclenching his anal muscles. Roger was panting and moaning now under the tape and the mask, partly from the pain of the stretching in his restraints and partly – he admit – from the arousal between his legs. Roger succumbed to climaxing, even under such circumstances, releasing rope of white semen all around John and his own stomach. He could not help himself and saw no point in fighting it. It did nothing to alter his feelings of loathing towards John, nor did it lessen his desire for revenge. He told himself he could at least gain some small element of satisfaction out of the indignity he was being forced into. It was difficult in a way, for Roger could barely move under the strictures of the ropes and with John on top, but he eventually came, gasping and panting under the rubber mask and straining against his bonds.

Roger could feel the smug smirk tugging on John’s face while he went away to change, the bastard, while he was left just lying there. Eventually John came back with dinner and released his hands, chaining his collar to the bed with a long length of chain, then leaving him to free the rest of his bonds as he turned the lights out and left. Poor Roger was terribly stiff and ached all over. He undid the ropes attached to the gas mask straps and gradually worked his way down his body undoing the straps and finally freeing his ankles. By the time he had unwound the duct tape from his head, his dinner was luke warm, but he was ravenous as usual. He went to sleep that night wondering how hard this week was going to be and how long he would have to endure this treatment.

*  * *

The presence of the builders, far from being a relief from the monotony of solitary confinement and offering a chance to make his presence known, was in fact the opposite. Gone was at least the freedom to walk about his cell, and so too was the potential for escape from the hallway anchor wire. Instead, he was always forced to endure a series of tight bindings that left him immovable for twelve hours at a time. At the end of that time his muscles would be screaming for relief, which was more than he was capable of, for the gagging and the gas mask became the normal routine. 

On what Roger now recognised as Tuesday, he found himself sitting cross-legged and bound to the post, his head taped securely and all of him unable to move. John seemed to see the requirement to keep his pet under control as a challenge to his ingenuity in providing a variety of immobilising positions that were sustainable through the day. Wednesday saw the drummer in a facedown letter ‘T’ ‘spreadeagle’ on the bed, his head through the frame at the foot of the bed, and his arms bound along it. The straps on the gas mask were tied back to the frame, supporting his head, but it was still terribly uncomfortable for his neck after a few hours.

By Thursday John thought that Roger needed some more variety, and he found himself standing, his hands crossed and bound behind him and his ankles spread and secured to a bar and thence to eyebolts in the concrete. Under his armpits and above his chest was a thick strap, which was attached to a rope to a pulley overhead, to stop him falling over. Simple, but very effective. This time it was his legs which were complaining by the time John released him. His comment that such isometric exercises should be good for his muscles did nothing to improve Roger’s sour mood.

Friday saw Roger lying on his side on the bed, bent over with his wrists bound to his ankles and his elbows to his knees, with of course his body well tied to the bed to stop any other movement. Friday was pain-in-the-back day. He was not at all impressed – less so when John told Roger they had at least three more days work the following week. He had also mistakenly looked forward to a relatively free weekend, and his antagonism to John and his builders worsened as the crew worked a half-day. He found himself tied to that hated post again for the duration of Saturday morning, this time with his knees drawn up under his chin and his wrists bound in front of his ankles. Each day John took advantage of his helplessness to screw him in the arse. He was never accustomed to this habit and would spend the day dreading the vulnerability of his bottom. 

Roger supposed it could be interpreted as remorse on John’s part for his suffering during the week that he obtained an hour of liberty on both Saturday and Sunday, albeit chained to the clothesline, but at least not by his nipples on these occasions. John explained that there was no point in tidying up inside since the painters were in the middle of their work in some rooms while the kitchen was half-finished. He could do nothing more than study further his surroundings and consider his options for a way out.

He looked at the fence line again. Along the rear boundary there was a gateway in the mesh fence that he had not noticed before. It was made of pipe with a mesh infill, and was partly covered by a rampant bougainvillea. He wondered if it was locked. There seemed to be a break in the undergrowth beyond it, and he wondered if there was a path leading into the bush reserve. A short distance beyond the fence the first of a large grove of tall eucalypts towered over the lower level trees. Maybe this was somewhere he could take refuge.

John obviously had no plans for Roger that weekend – he thought that his master was too busy sorting out his new décor and refurbishment. He was returned to his cell with no explanation or conversation being deemed necessary. Roger’s reward for compliance was being able to watch a video and to at least walk about in his cell. With the use of ropes and tape that John had employed of late, he had not had his wrist and ankle chains on for a week or so, which at least was a small mercy. He tried to take comfort in these small things and hoped it would continue. As it was he still wore the steel collar around his neck, to which the chain was locked, and the steel belt at his waist. Neither of these looked like they would be coming off in the near future.

*  * *

Monday came and went as Roger spent the day bound immovably to the chair in his cell. It was perhaps the least uncomfortable position he had been subjected to in that he could at least move his head – at least that was the theory. The fact was that if he moved it too much the inlet tube to the gas mask would constrict, for John had cleverly fastened it to the lower part of the chair, and his air supply would abruptly be cut off. It scared the hell out of him the first time it happened until Roger realised what John had done. Just for variety he had also turned the lights off, leaving him in a black world with only the sound of his own breathing for company until the workmen arrived. The noise seemed to have subsided now, and this was the way it was to be for the next two days.

Tuesday came and Roger could be found lying on his back on the bed like a corpse, his wrists bound to the opposite elbows underneath him, and his body secured to the bed at various points after his legs had been tied together at ankles and above and below the knees. There was some sort of major event upstairs that day. There was much clumping and thumping up the front stairs and Roger hazarded a guess that whatever new kitchen fittings John had ordered were being delivered and installed. There were other thumps, too, which could have been rolls of carpet being dropped, followed by banging that might have been the fitting of the carpet. And it was all being paid for with his money! The thought made him furious, and he squirmed in his bindings, snorting in vain under the layers of tape over his mouth.

Wednesday was quieter. There seemed to be fewer people and less banging about. John was not yet running out of ideas as Roger spent his day in a half-spreadeagle, his wrists bound to the top corners of the bed while he was bent at the waist, his ankles in a spreader bar above him. By the time John returned his feet had gone to sleep, as he had done several times during the day, and the predictable fuck was strange with his lower extremities barely able to be felt. 

The rest of the week was almost back to its boring normality, with Roger left chained to the post, with the house to himself. He read the thriller John had left him for the second time, all the while wondering what opportunity might now exist in the newly refurbished interior above him. Clearly Roger had lost any chance of communicating with the workmen – John had made very sure of that. It was now on his own shoulders to escape from this life of slavery which seemed to stretch out endlessly ahead of him.

*  * *

By the time Saturday came around, Roger was nervous with anticipation. He didn’t know what was going to happen but he had been mentally preparing himself for a positive action if and when the time arose. Would John still use the hallway anchor wire? Would there be a change of routine now? He didn’t know. The thought of rebellion in any form scared the hell out of him. Roger had received too many brutal beatings not to understand what would befall him if he got it wrong and fouled up. Whatever had happened to him in the past would probably be nothing to what John would devise as a punishment for such a flagrant act as trying to escape.

Saturday morning was warm and pleasant when John led his captive out of the dungeon. He had still not bothered with the previous wrist and ankle chain configuration, explaining that he had some proper cleaning to do today and that he expected all surfaces to be reached. That said, the steel ankle cuffs were still locked on, linked by a half metre hobble chain, the midpoint of which was in turn connected to the front of his waist belt with another chain. And whatever he might have thought of the practicalities of reaching high places, he was not past locking on the stainless steel crotch strap with its fixed insert. Roger had not experienced them for two weeks and the fullness that accompanied them inside him was strange and unsettling, yet he could do nothing to remove it from his person. Strangely, the fact that he was unable to do anything about it had left him semi hard inside his strap most of the time.

The inside of the kitchen had been transformed since his previous visit. A new bench and sink, cupboards and floor vinyl made an enormous difference, although the table and chairs and the small windows detracted from the end result. Throughout the house was a new dark-coloured carpet and the walls and ceiling were freshly painted. Everything smelled of paint and carpet – a not unpleasant combination that gave a newness to the finished look, despite the old furniture.

As Roger followed John down the hall, his heart leapt as he saw that he had re-fixed the anchor wire through the carpet at each end of the hall. Once again one end of the retractable steel wire was locked to his collar and he was directed to his work – mainly cleaning up after the builders. There was plaster dust everywhere and the carpet, though new, needed a good vacuum cleaning.

Roger resolved to make a break if he possibly could, his expectation being that John would sit down to watch some sport on television during the afternoon. In the meantime he busied himself in the kitchen, removing the pots, pans and crockery before cleaning the new cupboard shelves. John had evidently put the stuff away on dusty shelves on the expectation that Slave Roger would be coming in to clean up after the event. It gave him the perfect excuse to clean out the kitchen drawers at the same time and to find a pair of heavy scissors that he hoped would cut through the tongue of the retractable tape where it was connected to the wire.

The time seemed to go incredibly slowly. John wandered in and out of the kitchen, fixing himself lunch but not offering Roger anything. He was almost used to it now. His stomach had shrunk and he had lost a few kilos with the stress and lack of food, but being in the presence of food that he was not allowed to touch made things that much harder. It also strengthened his resolve.

Roger had finished the kitchen and was in the process of dusting the dining room when he heard the television being turned on. He waited until John seemed settled and returned to the kitchen where he extracted the scissors from the drawer. The blood was pounding in his ears as he crouched with his back to the entrance to the hall. Roger could sense his hands starting to tremble as he pulled the wire out of its housing until it would go no further and the retaining tongue of thin steel poked out. He gripped the scissors and squeezed the blades over the steel. It bent and folded between the blades, and when he prised them open again, the tape had bent at right angle, with only a small nick at the edge. If John saw the result of Rpger’s effort, he would know at once what his slave had done.

Roger tried again, this time working the tape high up into the jaws of the scissors and gripping them hard to give a tight shearing surface. The jaws of the scissors bit into the steel tape, jammed, then sheared through it with a sharp snap. He froze. He cast a glance over his shoulder, petrified at the thought of seeing John standing there glaring down at him. But the hallway was empty.

He scrabbled about to gather up the seven metres of wire that seemed to have a life of its own and be everywhere at once. He tiptoed across to the backdoor and let himself out, cursing the clink of his chains as he went down the stairs to the little lobby outside the door to his dungeon. Roger was so scared he almost forgot to breathe as he let himself out the door at the bottom of the steps. Every ticking second he was expecting a shout to come, followed by footsteps pounding after him.

Roger hurried to the side gate in the wooden fence but to his dismay, it was locked. Scurrying back around the house he turned the corner on the opposite side to find his way blocked by a similar wooden fence without even a gate. It was as tall as he was, with pointed tops to the palings, and he knew he wasn’t going to get over it. His only chance was the gate in the mesh fence at the bottom of the garden. 

He crossed the lawn with a clinking of chains that seemed inordinately loud in the warm afternoon. Inside him, the butt plug moved about disconcertingly. Roger reached the gate and tried it, then noticing the chain locked around the gate rail and the fence post. But this situation was a tad easier, for the gate was only chest high and he could climb up the mesh. He was about to climb the gate when the dreaded shout came from the house.

As if his heart wasn’t going fast enough, it now doubled its rate as Roger panicked in his efforts, his feet getting tangled in the hobble chain as he started to work his way up the gate. He could not swing his leading leg over easily until he was lying down along the top rail, resting on the steel crotch strap that pushed the buttplug further inside. At that point he fell awkwardly on the ground on the other side, trailing the wire still connected to his collar and giving the plug a sharp push.

The slam of the door at the foot of the stairs was followed by shouted curses and threats from the normally calm John as he started across the lawn. Roger grabbed the wire and ran, stumbling along a narrow track through the undergrowth as best he could with the chain catching on branches and weeds. His feet hurt on sticks and thorns but he was barely aware of this. Several times he stumbled as his surroundings became denser on each side of the path. He knew he couldn’t hope to stay ahead of John, and he thought he heard a crash not too far behind as he cleared the gate. Roger was desperate and took the only action he could think of. 

Stepping off to the left of the track in the midst of the grove of tall eucalypts he had seen from the garden, Roger wrapped the loose end of his neck wire around the base of a small tree and crossed over the path again, wrapping the wire again around a root before crouching behind the trunk of a willow tree. Without thinking he picked up one of the many dead branches that littered the ground, just as there was a pounding along the track behind him. 

Roger crouched, terrified out of his mind as the running came closer. He knew he would only get one chance at this, and he tightened the trip wire as he thought his pursuer was almost on top of him. The wire was fine enough to be almost invisible, and John caught one foot in it while travelling at full tilt. He went sprawling, trailing the wire which tore out the root between him and the path, and jerking Roger towards him. He went with the movement, swinging the broken branch with a fury he would not have thought myself capable of.

John had fallen half on his side and he looked up just in time to see Roger swinging the branch at him. He raised his right arm to deflect the branch which caught him hard on the elbow, eliciting a cry of pain from him. John’s arm appeared to go limp as he rolled away to try to avoid his next blow. Roger knew he could not be let up – he had to keep at him and not give John a moment to collect himself. The second blow landed on the side of his head, all but knocking him senseless. John was lying there, groaning when his branch struck his head again, and he went quiet. 

Roger stood there, gasping for breath, his head ringing and his chest heaving, the blood pounding in his ears. He was shaking all over from fear and exertion, while adrenaline coursed through his body. He had not anticipated a situation like this. He had envisioned escaping and somehow running out into the street to flag down a passing car or pedestrian. He had not seen himself crouching over an unconscious man in the middle of the bush. He had no idea where the path led or which was the direction to head to even find the road.

Roger must have squatted there for five minutes, his head down, striving to regain control of his faculties. It dawned on him to check John’s pulse. He had at least not killed him, and he showed signs of stirring. He searched his pockets and came up with the small bunch of keys he knew he carried for his express benefit. With stuttering fingers he found the key that unlocked the steel cuffs on his ankles and the chain at his waist. Without really thinking he tried one cuff on John’s wrist and found it an adequate fit. He locked it on and pulled the wrist across his back as far as it would go. Roger reckoned the chain was just long enough to pass underneath him so he could then cuff the opposite wrist. 

He was right, and before he realised it, John was chained up extremely securely, and the tables were suddenly turned. Roger unlocked the wire from his collar and sat down against the trunk of the big tree he had hidden behind, letting his heartbeat slowly subside. The situation had become abruptly different – like nothing he had expected, and now he had to decide what to do with his ex-captor. Roger elected to take things a bit at a time, as John began to groan and slowly shake his head. He turned and glared at Roger as a trickle of blood ran down his right temple.

“You son if a bitch – I think you’ve broken my arm! Now what do you think you’re going to do?” John snarled. 

“I-I don’t know yet,” Roger said, finding his throat dry. “I think you’ll keep while I decide what ought to be done.”

“Undo these cuffs now and I’ll be lenient on you,” he demanded.

“Yeah, right,” Roger sneered back. “You’re a man of your word and you have a real good track record. Get up, you shit!” Roger stood up and prodded John with his branch. He took a long time before eventually struggling to his feet. His expression was black as he attempted to stare Roger down.

“You want this stick up your arse or a whack on that arm of yours?” Roger asked, with a confidence he really didn’t feel.

 Glowering, John turned and walked unsteadily back up the path until they reached the gate. Roger checked the keys and found one that fitted the padlock, ushering his new captive through then across the lawn. He took John into the dungeon and locked a short chain around his neck, then locking the loose end around the post. 

“See ya,” he told John, as he turned for the door. His statement brought forth a torrent of abuse which Roger admits finally got to him. He opened the cabinet which used to fill him with such dread, and took out a ball and a roll of duct tape. Within two minutes John was silent and blind, the ball securely taped in his mouth, with his eyes also covered with the tape. It was a messy-looking job, and Roger knew he could have made it tidier, but right then he did not care. 

He slammed the door behind him as he left the dungeon, the keys still clutched in his hand, and made his way upstairs. Roger was still shaky and at this stage was almost running on autopilot. In the bathroom he removed the crotch strap along with the buttplug and savoured the luxury of the first hot shower he had experienced in almost three months. Then, as he stood in the shower he began to cry. He couldn’t explain it other than the overwhelming release from the stress and terror that had lain with him for so long. Roger now knew there was an end in sight, although it was beyond me at that stage to even consider what that might be. All he knew was that he was out of that dungeon and the monster who had imprisoned him there was now his victim. 

He sat in the shower until the water ran cold. He sobbed his heart out in a kind of cathartic reaction, he guesses. Roger could now let his feelings out without having to retain his strength for further unknown horrors still to come – horrors that had seemed to stretch out indefinitely ahead of him at one stage, when he had become John’s plaything, hung from ropes in his private domain. He had abused Roger to the extent that he had almost come to accept it, but now he found that he could not wash the unclean feeling away. Something had changed within Roger Taylor that could not be changed back.

What was he to do with his life – or the absence of one – now? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, please? ;)


End file.
